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THE  COMING  HARVEST 


BOOKS    BY    RENE    BAZIN 

PUBLISHED  BY  CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


The  Nun $1.00 

(L'Isotee) 

The  Coming  Harvest $1.25 

(Le  Bl<5  qui  Lfeve) 

Redemption    .  $1.25 

(De  toute  son  Ame) 


THE 
COMING  HARVEST 

(LE   BLE   QUI    LEVE) 


Santa         BY  j  ni& 

RENE   BAZIN 


TRANSLATED   BY 

EDNA  K.  HOYT 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S   SONS 
1908 


COPYRIGHT,  1908,  BY 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


Published  August,  1908 


Contents 


CHAPTER  PAGB 

I.  THE  PROCESSION  OF  THE  WOOD-CUTTERS    ...      i 

II.     THE  INNER  LITE  or  A  POOR  MAN     40 

III.  THE  READING  IN  THE  FOREST  87 

IV.  VAUCREUS.E  Il6 

V.     THE  PETITION  FOR  MERCY      140 

VI.     THE  GLOOMY  SUNDAY 157 

VII.     THE  HAY 187 

VIII.     ABBE  ROUBIAUX'S   COLLECTION         208 

IX.     THE  SALE  AT  LUREUX'S  226 

X.     THE  FARM  OF  PAIN-FENDU      245 

XL     THE  TILLAGE  OF  PICARDY       257 

XII.     THE  SQUALL        267 

XIII.  FAYT-MANAGE     283 

XIV.  THE  RETURN      302 

XV.     THE  PASSING  OF  THE  MASTER  311 

XVI.    THE  RETURN  TO  THE  FARM     340 


THE  COMING  HARVEST. 


i. 


THE    PROCESSION   OF   THE    WOOD- 
CUTTERS. 

THE  sun  was  setting.  The  east  wind  moistened 
the  tufts  of  sod,  hastening  the  decay  of  the  fallen 
leaves,  and  coating  the  trunks  of  the  trees,  and 
the  herbs  grown  old  and  flabby  since  the  Autumn, 
with  an  impervious  glaze  like  that  the  tide  blows 
in  upon  the  cliffs.  The  sea  was  a  long  way  off, 
however,  and  the  wind  came  from  another  direc- 
tion. It  had  swept  through  the  forests  of  the 
Morvan — that  land  of  fountains  in  which  it  had 
drenched  itself — through  those  of  Montsauche 
and  of  Montreuillon  and,  nearer  still,  that  of 
Blin;  it  was  hastening  toward  other  groves  of 
trees  of  the  immense  preserve  of  Nievre,  on  to  the 
vast  forest  of  Trongay,  to  the  woods  of  Crux-la- 
Ville  and  those  of  Saint-Franchy.  The  atmos- 
phere seemed  pure,  but  far  in  all  the  distances, 
above  the  cuttings,  on  the  outskirts  of  the  clear- 
ings, in  the  hollow  of  the  footpaths,  something 
blue  lay  sleeping  like  smoke. 


2       THE    COMING    HARVEST 

"You  are  sure,  Renard,  that  the  oak  is  a  hun- 
dred and  sixty  years  old?" 

"Yes,  Monsieur  le  Comte,  it  carries  its  age 
written  on  its  body;  see,  here  are  the  eight  red 
lines;  I  made  them  myself  at  the  time  of  the 
cutting." 

"That  is  so,  you  saved  it;  and  now  they  want 
me  to  condemn  it  to  death!  No,  Renard,  I  can 
not!  A  hundred  and  sixty  years!  It  has  seen 
five  generations  of  Meximieus." 

"That  makes,  all  the  same,  the  thirty-second 
old  tree  that  we  have  spared,"  grumbled  the 
guard.  "At  that  age,  in  poor  soil  such  as  ours, 
the  oak  stops  growing,  it  merely  matures.  How- 
ever, Monsieur  le  Comte  is  free  to  do  as  he  pleases. 
He  will  have  to  settle  it  with  Monsieur  le  Mar- 
quis." 

The  guard  relapsed  into  silence.  His  ruddy, 
close-shaven  face  expressed  the  disdain  which  a 
subordinate,  who  has  been  omnipotent,  feels  for 
the  administration  which  has  succeeded  him. 
He  was  standing  a  little  behind  his  master,  a  green 
velvet  cap  on  his  head,  warm  and  comfortable  in 
a  velvet  suit  of  the  same  shade  as  his  cap;  his 
hands  crossed  on  his  chest  held  a  half-open  mem- 
orandum book:  "Condition  of  the  full-grown 
trees  of  the  estate  of  Fonteneilles,"  and  his  legs, 
too  slender  for  his  stout  body,  gave  him  the  ap- 
pearance of  a  German  puppet  hung  upon  cords. 
He  was  looking  at  his  master,  who  was  smiling  at 
the  oak  and  saying  very  low:  "Well,  my  fine  old 
tree,  you  are  safe ;  I  will  come  back  and  see  you 
again  when  your  leaves  are  out."  The  tree  soared 


THE    COMING    HARVEST       3 

upward,  slender,  symmetrical,  letting  the  living 
shadow  of  its  branches  fall  upon  the  bare  under- 
wood. 

"You  see,  Renard,"  resumed  Michel  de  Mexi- 
mieu,  pursuing  his  own  thoughts,  "I  love  my 
trees,  for  they  ask  nothing  from  me;  I  have  known 
them  for  a  long  time;  I  see  their  tops  from  the 
window  of  my  room ;  they  are  friends  more  trusty 
than  those  who  cut  them  down." 

"They  are  a  tribe  of  liars,  the  wood-cutters, 
Monsieur  le  Comte.  They  are  poachers,  good- 
for-naughts,  they " 

"No,  Renard,  no!  If  they  did  nothing  worse 
than  kill  my  game,  I  would  willingly  pardon 
them.  All  that  I  mean  to  say  is,  that  they  are 
petty  natures,  like  so  many  others." 

1  Parbleu!  The  poachers  do  not  trouble  those 
who  do  not  hunt:  but  for  myself,  I  hunt!"  mut- 
tered Renard  in  an  undertone. 

His  master  did  not  seem  to  hear  him.  In  his 
left  hand,  hanging  down  by  his  side,  he  held  a 
hatchet  with  a  hammer  head  used  to  mark  the 
trees.  After  an  instant,  he  replaced  it  in  the 
leather  case  suspended  from  his  belt.  He  was 
looking  now  at  the  vast  yard  that  he  had  just 
inspected,  ten  acres  of  underwood  almost  en- 
tirely cut,  where  the  wood-cutters  were  still  at 
work,  each  in  his  marked-out  line,  in  "his  work- 
shop," among  the  stacked-up  cords  of  wood  and 
the  piles  of  twigs.  At  the  farthest  corner  of  this 
clearing,  toward  the  east,  a  second  clearing  was 
laid  out,  with  a  winding  pass  lying  between  them 
like  a  gorge  between  two  plains. 


4       THE    COMING    HARVEST 

"Come,  Renard,  we  have  had  enough  of  this 
miserable  business!  Go  back  to  the  chateau  and 
tell  my  father  that  I  will  return  by  the  cross-road 
of  Fonteneilles." 

"Very  well,  Monsieur  le  Comte." 

"And  also  tell  Baptiste  to  harness  the  victoria, 
to  take  the  General  to  the  train  at  Corbigny." 

The  guard,  making  a  half  turn  to  the  left, 
stalked  away  with  a  quick,  vigorous  step,  and 
for  some  time  the  noise  could  be  heard  of  his 
brodkins  striking  against  the  young  shoots  and 
breaking  the  brambles. 

Michel  de  Meximieu  had  just  been  obeying  an 
order  which  had  seemed  to  him  hard  and  even 
humiliating.  In  March,  several  months  after  the 
regular  sale  of  wood  to  a  local  merchant,  he  had 
been  compelled  by  order  of  his  father  to  sacrifice 
a  large  number  of  trees  which  had  been  reserved 
from  the  sale,  personally  to  select  them  for  cut- 
ting and  for  that  purpose  to  "check"  them  by 
effacing  the  red  lines,  and  by  marking  the  side  of 
the  tree  with  a  stroke  of  the  hammer.  Perhaps 
he  had  spared  too  many,  as  Renard  said;  but  he 
blamed  himself  for  having  obeyed  too  strictly, 
and  the  thought  made  him  suffer. 

Michel  was  young,  vigorous  and  plain.  His 
plainness  came  principally  from  his  being  badly 
proportioned.  He  was  of  medium  height,  but  his 
legs  were  long,  his  body  short  and  his  head  mas- 
sive. There  was  neither  regularity  nor  harmony  in 
his  features,  which  might  have  been  carved  by  the 
realistic  and  powerful  hand  of  a  workman  of  the 


THE    COMING    HARVEST        5 

Middle  Ages :  a  low  forehead  beneath  rough  brown 
hair,  which  came  down  in  a  point  in  the  middle 
upon  the  dull  skin;  blue  eyes,  deep  set  and 
slightly  unequal,  a  large  nose  and  long  lips — the 
most  expressive  of  his  features — shaven  lips,  the 
lips  of  an  orator  perhaps,  if  opportunity  and  edu- 
cation had  been  favourable  to  the  son  of  the 
Marquis  de  Meximieu;  finally,  a  square  jaw, 
which,  when  he  spoke,  was  scarcely  opened,  and 
when  he  was  silent  was  closed  like  a  vise.  He  had 
neither  charm  nor  beauty,  but  his  face  expressed 
one  ruling  quality:  will  power.  It  showed  en- 
ergy, not  in  reserve  and  still  inactive,  but  trained 
and  already  victorious.  Over  what  temptations? 
Over  what  revolts?  The  face  is  a  book  where  the 
causes  of  things  are  not  all  written.  One  could 
only  read  on  that  of  Michel  de  Meximieu:  "I 
have  struggled";  one  could  see  that  this  young 
man  was  not  dazzled  by  life,  as  so  many  are, 
and  that  he  had  judged  it.  Two  slight  wrinkles 
bridled  his  mouth  like  a  bit.  His  smile  alone 
remained  young  and  cordial.  But  it  was  fugitive. 
At  that  moment  Michel  was  not  smiling.  His 
eyebrows  were  drawn  together,  the  lashes  low- 
ered by  the  effort  of  his  eyes  to  focus  on  the  dis- 
tance, and  he  was  searching  among  the  workmen 
distributed  far  off  in  the  clearing  endeavour- 
ing to  recognize  the  one  to  whom  he  wished  to 
speak.  Although  he  was  going  to  speak  to  a  wood- 
cutter who  was  a  socialist,  it  did  not  occur  to 
him  to  take  off  his  gloves.  He  knew  that  it  is  not 
differences  which  wound,  but  the  pride  which 
shows  them.  When  he  had  glanced  over  the 


6       THE    COMING    HARVEST 

vast  forest  yard,  and  had  convinced  himself  that 
Gilbert  Cloquet  was  not  there : 

"I  will  ask  his  son-in-law,"  he  thought,  " where 
Gilbert  is." 

Then  striding  over  the  cut  branches,  and  going 
around  the  long  piles  of  round  logs  or  of  corded 
charcoal  sticks,  he  advanced  briskly  to  the  middle 
of  the  clearing. 

A  young  man  was  working  there,  picking  up 
the  pieces  of  firewood  which  he  stacked  up  be- 
tween the  stakes.  He  heard  the  master  coming. 
He  had  seen  him  from  a  long  way  off.  But  he  let 
him  approach  within  three  steps  without  sa- 
luting him.  Michel  de  Meximieu  was  used  to 
such  treatment  and  he  prepared  to  speak  first. 
The  little  wound  to  his  self-love  and  his  unap- 
preciated friendship,  bled  inwardly.  But  his 
voice  betrayed  nothing. 

"Well,  Lureux,  we  shall  have  a  frost  to-night, 
if  the  wind  goes  down?" 

A  voice  young  also,  but  harder,  replied : 

"It  will  not  go  down." 

And  in  the  tone  of  these  words,  in  the  manner 
of  dwelling  upon  the  words  "go  down,"  in  the 
swift  smile  which  curled  up  the  mustaches,  worn 
drooping  in  the  old  French  fashion,  it  was  very 
plain  that  Lureux,  while  speaking  of  the  wind, 
was  thinking  of  another  force,  which  likewise 
would  not  go  down. 

The  wood-cutter,  who  answered  with  this 
phrase  of  double  meaning,  was  a  man  scarcely 
older  than  Michel,  of  more  than  medium  height, 
with  a  clear  complexion,  and  a  face  which,  barred 


THE    COMING    HARVEST       7 

diagonally  with  a  tawny  mustache,  rather  thin 
and  very  young,  expressed  nothing  but  satisfac- 
tion with  himself  and  the  resolution  to  talk  no 
more.  His  eyes,  animated  and  jesting  for  a  mo- 
ment, had  immediately  recovered,  between  their 
half-closed  lids,  a  look  as  innocent  as  that  of  a 
yellow  primrose  shining  between  two  leaves.  He 
had  thrown  his  jacket  upon  a  heap  of  twigs.  His 
violet-checked  shirt,  his  trousers  of  coarse  brown 
cloth,  revealed  a  supple  and  well-developed  body, 
admirably  formed. 

Around  the  workman,  in  the  clearing,  the  piles 
of  wood  ran  in  straight  lines  like  walls  thrown  out 
in  all  directions,  and  upon  one  of  these  walls,  on 
the  edge  of  a  pile  of  " white  wood,"  as  the  wood 
of  the  aspen  and  birch  is  called,  a  rosy  and  curly- 
headed  little  boy,  the  child  of  one  of  the  men 
working  in  the  forest,  was  sitting,  dangling  his  legs, 
his  wooden  shoes  also  dangling  from  his  feet,  just 
balanced  on  the  tips  of  his  toes.  Lureux  looked  at 
the  child  to  avoid  looking  at  the  master  and  to 
show  that  he  did  not  want  to  keep  up  the  con- 
versation. The  other  workmen  were  probably 
watching  him,  and  he  made  it  a  point  to  be 
rude,  not  so  much  from  personal  dislike,  as  from 
the  fear  that  the  others  would  accuse  him  of  talk- 
ing with  the  bourgeois.  Michel  understood  this 
and  asked : 

''Where  is  your  father-in-law?  I  do  not  see 
him." 

"Over  there,"  said  the  man  pointing  to  the 
left;  "he  is  cutting  down  an  old  tree,  he  has  fin- 
ished with  the  underbrush." 


8       THE    COMING    HARVEST 

"Thanks,  Lureux.    Good-by!" 

"Good-by,  sir!" 

And  he  watched  the  master  contemptuously  as 
he  walked  away. 

The  latter  left  the  clearing  and  entered  the 
forest.  Less  than  a  hundred  yards  away,  he  saw 
the  man  for  whom  he  was  looking.  The  wood- 
cutter was  felling  an  old  tree  marked  on  the  side. 
He  hit  with  a  slanting  stroke.  The  blade  of  the 
axe  sank  deeper  at  each  blow  into  the  spread  foot 
of  the  tree,  striking  out  a  chip,  moist  and  white 
as  a  slice  of  bread,  and  then  rose,  ready  to  fall 
again.  The  blade  glittered,  polished  and  moist- 
ened with  the  sap  from  the  living  wood.  The 
body  of  the  workman  followed  the  movement 
of  his  axe  and  the  whole  tree  vibrated  to  the 
lowest  roots.  A  shirt  and  a  worn  pair  of  trousers, 
both  glued  to  his  limbs  with  perspiration,  re- 
vealed the  man's  whole  frame,  his  prominent 
shoulder  blades,  his  ribs,  his  narrow  pelvis,  and 
the  long  thigh-bones  barely  covered  over  with 
muscles,  like  fagots  covered  with  soft  bark.  There 
were  dark  circles  under  his  clear  eyes  in  their 
deep  sunken  sockets,  wounds  that  had  been  en- 
larged by  the  suffering  of  the  heart.  Two  hol- 
lows in  the  flesh,  like  two  prints  of  the  thumb, 
emphasized  by  another  hollow  at  the  base  of  the 
cheek-bones,  proclaimed:  "This  man  has,  by  his 
own  labour,  wasted  his  flesh  and  carved  his  body 
in  the  harvest  field  and  in  the  forest  clearing." 
The  lean  neck  said:  "The  north  wind  has  stripped 
off  the  bark  and  left  only  the  hard,  dry 
wood."  His  hands,  which  were  mere  bundles  of 


THE    COMING    HARVEST       9 

veins,  tendons,  and  dry  muscles,  awkward  for 
fine  work,  but  to  be  depended  upon  for  hard 
labour,  said:  "We  express  a  long  life  of  coura- 
geous work  and  of  endurance;  we  bear  witness 
that  his  labour  has  been  hard,  and  that  he  has 
given  good  measure  in  his  prescribed  work." 

"Good-day,  Gilbert!" 

"Good-day,  Monsieur  Michel!" 

He  rested  his  axe  on  the  ground.  Then  lifted 
his  cap  with  one  hand  while  he  held  out  the  other. 
The  wood-cutter's  tired  face  was  illumined,  like 
the  axe,  with  a  ray  of  light.  It  was  a  face  which 
had  been  handsome.  Fifty  years  of  poverty  had 
emaciated  it,  but  the  features  remained  fine  and 
clear-cut,  and  his  beard,  which  was  still  fair, 
lengthened  it  nobly,  giving  to  Gilbert  Cloquet  the 
appearance  of  a  man  of  the  North,  a  Scandinavian 
or  a  Norseman,  who  had  come  down  to  the  pas- 
tures and  the  forests  of  the  centre  of  France. 

"Well,  Gilbert,  I  don't  suppose  that  you  are 
satisfied  with  the  way  things  are  going?  I  heard  the 
bugle  again  yesterday  evening.  The  strike  is  not 
called,  but  for  us  it  is  a  threat,  and,  for  you,  a  re- 
hearsal. Do  you  think  there  will  be  a  new  strike?  " 

The  wood-cutter,  passing  his  hand  over  his  long 
beard,  blinked  his  eyes  and  looked  at  the  under- 
brush which  was  beginning  to  turn  brown. 

"I  do  not  think  so,"  he  answered  in  a  measured 
voice;  "they  wish  to  threaten,  as  you  say,  so  that 
wages  shall  not  drop.  But  that  will  not  begin 
again  immediately.  Anyway,  we  must  hope  not, 
Monsieur  Michel,  for  I  need  work,  more  than  the 
others " 


10     THE    COMING    HARVEST 

He  stopped  short  and  Michel  understood  that 
Gilbert  Cloquet  was  thinking  of  his  daughter,  the 
frivolous  and  extravagant  Marie  Lureux,  "La 
Lureuse,"  who,  little  by  little,  had  wasted  all  his 
property.  The  dull  blows  of  axes  cutting  the 
undergrowth  passed  by  on  the  wind.  The  young 
man  began  again. 

"But  even  you  belong  to  the  union  and  pay 
your  five  sous  a  month;  I  have  never  understood 
that." 

"Yes,  my  heart  is  with  them,  but  not  always 
my  head." 

"And  yet  you  obey  all  their  orders!  A  man  of 
your  age!" 

"Well,  the  party  requires  that,  Monsieur  Michel. 
But  there  are  times  when  I  prefer,  for  my  own 
reasons,  to  remain  with  them." 

"What  masters  you  give  yourselves,  you  poor 
people!  You  do  not  gain  by  the  change!  After 
all,  that  is  not  why  I  came  to  speak  to  you.  I 
have  near  the  chateau  a  small  lot  of  wood  which 
has  not  been  sold.  It  is  my  supply  for  next  win- 
ter. Will  you  cut  it  for  me?  I  give  you  the  pref- 
erence, because  you  are  an  old  friend  of  the  family." 

"About  how  many  days'  work?" 

"A  fortnight.  Perhaps  more.  Have  you  fin- 
ished your  work  here?" 

"Yes;  the  others  will  need  a  day  more  to  finish. 
But  my  lot  turned  out  to  be  smaller,  and  I  am 
cutting  down  one  of  the  old  trees,  which  have  been 
sold  to  Mehaut.  I  can  begin  to-morrow  morning 
in  your  lot.  That  is  settled." 

"You  will  be  all  alone  there,  and  I  know  that 


THE    COMING    HARVEST      11 

the  work  will  be  well  done.  It  will  be  better  not 
to  say  anything  about  it." 

"  Certainly." 

The  wood-cutter  stretched  out  his  large  hand  to 
seal  the  contract.  Then,  embarrassed  and  shak- 
ing his  head  on  account  of  his  discomfort,  he  said : 

"  Monsieur  Michel,  since  I  am  engaged,  would 
you  be  willing  to  advance  me  twenty  francs  on  the 
work?  I  do  not  know  how  I  manage  to  spend  so 
much!" 

Michel  took  a  gold  piece  from  his  purse  and 
gave  it  to  Gilbert. 

"I  know,  my  good  fellow.  You  are  too  good 
to  some  one  who  is  not  so  at  all.  Adieu!" 

At  that  moment  a  shrill  bugle  call  sounded  in 
the  distance,  far  away  to  the  right  in  the  forest. 
It  was  a  military  call,  and  sounded  like  "lights 
out."  Swift,  urgent,  imperative,  it  ended  on  a 
prolonged  note  which  ordered  silence,  rest  from 
work,  and  repose.  It  was  repeated  after  an  in- 
terval of  a  few  seconds,  and  this  time  the  bell  of 
the  bugle  must  have  been  directed  to  the  side 
where  the  two  men  were,  for  it  sounded  clearer 
and  stronger.  Instantly,  Gilbert  Cloquet  turned 
aside  to  take  from  a  branch  nearby  his  old  round 
jacket  which  he  wanted  to  throw  over  his  shoulders 
on  the  walk  home. 

With  a  sudden  movement,  and  as  if  unable  to 
restrain  his  irritation,  Michel  stooped,  seized  the 
axe  lying  on  the  ground,  and  aimed  a  stroke 
against  the  trunk  of  the  oak : 

"You  leave  your  work  half  done!  That's  a 
cowardly  trick;  I  will  finish  it  myself!" 


12     THE    COMING    HARVEST 

And  with  the  steadiness  of  a  man  accustomed 
to  violent  exercise,  he  struck  ten,  twenty,  thirty 
times,  without  stopping.  The  chips  flew.  Clo- 
quet  laughed.  A  panting  voice  from  the  out- 
skirts of  the  clearing  cried : 

"Who  is  chopping  after  the  signal?  Didn't  you 
hear?"  One,  two,  three  blows  of  the  axe,  even 
harder  than  the  others,  were  the  sole  answer.  The 
tree,  slashed  all  around  the  foot,  held  up  only  by 
a  hundle  of  fibres,  broke  that  feeble  brace,  bent 
over  and  toppled  forward  into  the  open  space, 
with  its  branches  flung  out,  then,  rebounding  upon 
its  broken  limbs,  made  a  half  circle  on  itself  and 
remained  outstretched. 

"All  the  forest  has  not  obeyed!"  said  Michel, 
throwing  down  the  axe. 

He  searched  with  his  eyes  the  underbrush  from 
whence  the  voice  had  called,  but  he  saw  no  one. 
The  man,  after  seeing  that  the  infringement  of  the 
pact  of  servitude  did  not  come  from  a  member  of 
the  union,  had  probably  rejoined  his  companions. 

"No  bad  feeling  is  there,  Cloquet?" 

"Surely  not,  Monsieur  Michel!  You  are  not 
angry  with  me.  But  how  pale  you  are?  That 
was  too  much  for  you,  that  work — you  look 
ill." 

"No,  it  is  nothing." 

The  young  man  placed  his  hand  on  his  heart 
which  was  beating  too  rapidly.  He  remained  an 
instant  motionless,  somewhat  agitated,  his  lips  half 
open,  breathing  regularly  to  calm  his  heart.  Then 
he  smiled  again,  and  the  anxiety  disappeared. 

"Till  to-morrow  then?" 


Michel  descended  the  wooded  slope,  which 
began  there,  leaped  over  the  brook,  ascended  the 
other  slope  and  entered  a  path  which  wound 
among  the  tall  trees  of  eighteen  years  growth. 
The  sun,  between  the  branches,  threw  a  shower 
of  red  gold  under  the  trees.  At  times  the  top  of 
the  hills  which  lie  beyond  the  pond  of  Vaux, 
could  be  seen  all  purple  in  the  twilight.  The 
uneasy  forest  felt  sun  and  life  dying  within  her. 
Millions  of  tufts  of  grass  moved  their  supple  arms 
toward  him.  The  big  birds  were  frightened. 
Already  the  blackbirds,  with  blustering  cries  of 
fear,  had  glided  at  half  the  height  of  the  young 
trees  toward  the  denser  parts  of  the  woods.  The 
last  thrushes  flew  crying  about  the  tops  of 
the  oaks.  Three  times  Michel  had  shivered  at 
the  passage  of  a  woodcock  which  "sank  down." 
"Good^evening,  Monsieur  le  Comte." 
Michel,  who  had  stopped  at  the  crossing  of  two 
paths  and  raised  his  head  to  listen  to  the  even- 
ing sounds,  started  at  the  guttural  voice  which 
greeted  him.  But  recovering  himself  at  once  he 
recognized,  almost  at  his  feet,  seated  upon  a  stone 
and  holding  a  sack  between  his  legs,  a  heavily 
bearded  tramp  whom  the  country  people  feared 
without  being  able  to  tell  why.  No  one  knew 
how  old  the  beggar  was  nor  where  he  lived. 
People  called  him  Le  Grollier  on  account  of  the 
hair,  black  as  the  feathers  of  the  rook  (grolle), 
with  which  his  face  was  covered,  and  out  of  the 
midst  of  which  his  eyes  gleamed  phosphorescent 
like  those  of  a  shepherd  dog  or  a  marauding 
jay.  Michel  touched  him  on  the  shoulder. 


14     THE    COMING    HARVEST 

"Hello,  Grollier,"  said  he,  "I  was  not  expecting 
to  see  you." 

"No  one  ever  expects  to  see  me,"  answered  the 
man,  blowing  the  smoke  from  his  pipe.  "You 
were  listening  to  the  birds,  weren't  you?  It  is 
the  smallest  birds  who  sing  last." 

Then,  looking  fixedly  at  Michel,  who,  feeling  in 
his  purse  for  a  piece  of  ten  sous,  placed  it  on 
the  motionless  sleeve  of  the  beggar,  he  said : 

"Be  on  your  guard  against  Lureux,  Monsieur  le 
Comte,  be  on  your  guard  against  Tournabien  and 
Supiat,  if  you  buy  any  mowing  machines." 

"I  am  not  afraid  of  any  of  them,  Grollier,  and 
no  one  knows  what  I  shall  do.  Adieu!" 

He  lifted  his  hand  to  his  hat  and  walked  on. 

"Who  the  devil  could  have  found  out  that  I 
thought  of  buying  a  mowing  machine  for  my 
meadows  ?  " 

Then  he  remembered  that  at  the  fair  of  Cor- 
bigny,  two  weeks  before,  he  had  asked  about  their 
prices  from  a  maker  of  the  machines.  And  he 
began  to  laugh.  Then  the  other  remark  of 
Grollier:  "It  is  the  smallest  birds  who  sing 
last,"  brought  him  back  to  what  he  had  been 
thinking  of  before  he  met  the  beggar. 

It  was  indeed  the  hour  when  even  the  small 
songs  were  coming  to  an  end.  The  bullfinches, 
which  travel  in  March,  the  chaffinches  and  the 
green  linnets  which  fast  in  the  winter,  whistled, 
but  without  changing  their  day-song,  in  the  full 
confidence  that  to-morrow  would  be  as  good, 
or  even  better,  than  to-day.  "Au  revoir,  sun, 
thanks  for  the  first  buds!  Under  our  wings, 


THE    COMING    HARVEST      15 

we  feel  the  tide  of  youth  already  beating,  the 
leaves  of  the  coming  spring  that  are  pushing  out 
toward  the  light,  the  sap  that  is  moving  in  the 
hidden  passages  toward  the  openings  above. 
Au  revoir,  sun!  To-morrow,  when  you  come  to 
life  again,  how  many  perfumes,  how  many  new 
buds,  and  how  many  gnats  there  will  be  for  us!" 
They  glided  away,  one  by  one,  toward  the  thorn 
thickets,  and  became  perfectly  silent.  The  sun 
had  gone  below  the  horizon.  Then  the  last  birds 
sang  their  adieu  to  the  day.  First  the  red- 
breasts, then  the  tomtits,  and  all  the  tribe  of 
climbers,  those  seekers  after  lichens,  explorers  of 
tree  barks,  tiny  bundles  of  gray  feathers  never  at 
rest  while  the  light  lasts,  and  whose  shrill  little 
cries  are  the  last  of  all  the  songs  of  the  daylight 
animals. 

Michel  knew  all  these  things.  He  felt  ap- 
proaching from  the  far  horizon  that  breath  of 
warm  wind,  that  kiss  which,  every  evening,  floats 
through  the  air,  crosses  the  woods,  rolls  over  the 
meadows  and,  in  its  passing,  touches  all  life,  wher- 
ever it  may  be.  He  opened  his  lips  and  lungs  to 
that  rare  breath,  which  renewed  his  whole  being. 
Then  he  continued  on  his  way. 

The  light,  now,  was  passing  away  above  the 
forests.  For  an  instant,  through  the  opening  of 
a  path,  he  saw  the  still  glistening  waters  of  the 
pond  of  Vaux,  with  its  five  branches  like  a  maple 
leaf,  making  a  star  in  the  gloom  of  the  forest. 
Then  he  left  the  path  which  he  had  followed  up 
to  that  point  and  turned  to  the  left  into  a  clearing 
which  he  crossed  rapidly,  and,  scaling  a  steep 


16     THE    COMING    HARVEST 

embankment  of  mossy  earth,  found  himself  at  the 
edge  of  one  of  the  principal  boundaries  of  the 
forest  of  Fonteneilles. 

"Ah!  Here  you  are,  father!  I  am  not  late,  am  I?" 
"Prompt  as  a  solclier,  like  myself;  I  have  just 
arrived." 

Upon  a  strip  of  pebbly  earth  between  the  slopes 
of  grass  the  General  was  waiting  for  Michel,  at 
the  rendezvous  which  the  latter  had  made.  They 
had  been  separated  all  the  afternoon,  until  they 
met  at  this  crossing  of  two  forest  roads,  one 
of  which  led  to  the  chateau,  while  the  other, 
sloping  to  the  West,  went  straight  to  the  village 
of  Fonteneilles.  The  father  and  son  intended  to 
return  together,  and  Monsieur  de  Meximieu  was 
to  leave  immediately  for  Corbigny.  The  Gen- 
eral, standing  on  the  edge  of  one  of  his  clearings, 
elegant,  graceful  and  haughty,  recalled  those  por- 
traits of  gentlemen  whom  artists  usually  paint 
with  an  ample  and  unstudied  background  of 
scenery,  to  symbolize  their  riches  and  glory.  He 
was  tall  in  stature,  very  slender  still  in  spite  of  his 
sixty-three  years,  the  handsomest  general  officer 
in  the  army,  so  the  saying  was.  He  had  a  small 
head,  black  mustache,  gray  goatee,  hair  cropped 
short  and  almost  white,  features  firm  and  clean- 
cut,  a  vigorous  nose,  thin  and  slightly  curved  in 
the  Spanish  style,  a  full  chest  and  straight  and 
tapering  legs,  "not  an  ounce  of  fat  and  not  a 
twinge  of  rheumatism,"  the  General  affirmed. 
As  he  had  gone  for  a  ride  after  breakfast  he  still 
wore  the  costume  which  all  Parisians,  who  are 
used  to  morning  rides  in  the  Bois,  know  well:  a 


THE    COMING    HARVEST      17 

round  hat,  a  blue  cravat  with  wide  ends,  a  jacket 
and  riding  trousers  of  gray  English  cloth,  while 
his  riding  boots  made  the  sole  brilliant  note  in  the 
dull  tone  of  the  dress  and  the  landscape.  He  had 
on  red  gloves,  and  his  gold-topped  riding  crop  of 
twisted  osier  was  stuck  in  his  right  boot.  The 
General  let  his  son  approach  him  without  making 
a  movement  himself;  he  was  preoccupied;  he 
turned  his  back  to  the  chateau,  and  looked  obsti- 
nately, with  an  air  of  defiance  and  contempt,  in 
the  direction  of  the  southeast,  toward  the 
pointed  arch  formed  by  the  leafless  oaks  above 
the  forest  path. 

"Did  you  hear  that?"  he  asked. 

"What?" 

"What  they  are  singing.  Listen,  they  are 
coming!" 

The  force  of  the  wind,  and  the  irregularities  of 
the  ground,  had  prevented  Michel  from  hearing. 
He  heard  this  time.  In  the  woods,  to  the  left, 
strong,  ardent,  musical  voices  were  chanting  the 
Internationale.  Nearly  all  the  words  were  lost  in 
the  wooded  solitudes,  but  some  of  them  reached 
distinctly  the  ears  of  the  two  men  standing,  side 
by  side,  on  the  border  of  the  wood,  and  facing  the 
sound  which  grew  louder. 

"Les  canailles!"  exclaimed  the  General.  "Can 
one  sing  such  horrors!" 

"They  are  drunk." 

"That  is  one  more  vice." 

"With  the  hatred  which  has  been  poured  out  to 
them  by  the  glassful.  But  how  many  of  them 
saw  only  the  label!  It  was  fine." 


18      THE    COMING    HARVEST 

"You  think  so?   The  murder  of  their  officers?" 

"No,  the  brotherhood." 

"Listen!" 

The  wood-cutters  approached,  their  voices 
borne  along  on  the  cold  wind.  At  times  the  sound 
was  like  a  hymn  across  the  forest;  it  sounded 
with  the  same  breadth,  and  long,  resonant  tones. 
The  approaching  night  made  the  world  attentive. 
Suddenly  a  group  of  men  filed  out  from  the  left, 
in  a  straight  line  almost  perpendicular  to  that 
where  Monsieur  de  Meximieu  and  his  son  were 
standing.  They  were  marching  without  order; 
one  of  them  carried  a  bugle  slung  crosswise; 
several  had  poles  on  their  shoulders,  the  "flag- 
staff" which  they  brought  back  from  the  cutting 
and  whose  flexible  end  beat  on  the  leaves  of  the 
path  behind  them.  The  president  of  the  union  of 
the  wood-cutters  of  Fonteneilles,  Ravoux,  was  at 
the  head,  a  pale  man  with  a  black  beard,  a  theo- 
rist, a  cold  enthusiast,  who  did  not  sing  and  whose 
eyes  had  already  discovered  the  two  men.  By  his 
side  two  young  men  strode  along  laughing  as  they 
sang.  Then  came  Lureux,  with  an  enormous  flag- 
staff, then  half  a  score  more,  with  scarred  faces, 
animated  or  spiritless,  wet  with  perspiration  and 
powdered  with  fragments  of  leaves.  There  were 
young  men,  and  men  of  mature  age,  all  dressed  in 
dull  colours,  wearing  caps  or  hats  of  soft  felt,  all 
carrying  game  bags  or  lunch  bags  puffed  out  on 
one  side  by  an  empty  quart  bottle  and  pieces  of 
uneaten  bread.  When  they  filed  out  on  the  cross 
road  and  saw  the  two  men  standing  motionless 
at  the  entrance  of  the  road  to  Fonteneilles,  they 


THE    COMING    HARVEST      19 

hesitated.  The  young  men  who  were  walking  in 
front  stopped  singing,  open  mouthed.  But 
Ravoux,  who  until  then  had  not  joined  in  the 
singing,  took  up  the  couplet  with  a  metallic  voice 
that  was  rough  like  a  sprig  of  ash. 

His  companions  followed  his  lead.  A  flash  of 
joy  gleamed  in  the  eyes  of  the  men,  the  unwhole- 
some joy  of  vexing  and  insulting  the  adversary 
with  impunity.  They  passed  along.  Nearly  all, 
however,  raised  their  hats  and  Ravoux  was  of  the 
number.  Several  said,  interrupting  their  singing: 
" Good-evening,  gentlemen."  They  passed  on  in 
the  direction  of  the  village  and  then  another  band 
still  more  numerous  came  by. 

"They  are  returning  from  my  woods,"  said  the 
Marquis  de  Meximieu,  "and  they  insult  those 
who  give  them  their  bread?  Do  you  know  these 
fellows?" 

Their  heads  were  appearing  out  of  the  shadow, 
one  by  one. 

"All  of  them,"  replied  Michel. 

The  men  advanced,  shouting  or  silent,  lifting 
their  hats  or  remaining  covered. 

The  young  man  named  them  as  fast  as  they 
passed:  Lampoignant,  Tr6pard,  Dixneuf,  Beli- 
saire,  Paradis,  Supiat,  Gilbert  Cloquet — who 
turned  his  head  to  the  other  side  of  the  wood,  but 
saluted  all  the  same — Fontroubade,  Mechin, 
Padovan,  Durge*,  Gandhon. 

"Ganclhon?  Stop!  I  know  him  myself.  One 
of  my  cavalry  men  five  years  ago !  You  shall  see 
that  I  know  how  to  treat  them!  Gandhon?" 

A  man  stepped  out  from  the  band,  a  large,  red- 


20     THE    COMING    HARVEST 

haired  man  with  laughing,  shifty  eyes,  who,  in 
spite  of  the  cold,  had  rolled  up  his  shirt  sleeves 
above  the  elbow  and  had  his  vest,  which  was 
fastened  by  a  button  at  the  neck,  floating  out 
behind. 

"Well,  Gandhon,  is  it  you,  the  trooper  of  the 
first  class  of  the  3rd  squadron  at  Vincennes?  I 
knew  you,  I  recognized  you." 

The  man  had  uncovered  as  he  came  up. 

"Yes,  General." 

"Well  and  good;  you  do  not  remain  covered 
like  those  unmannerly  fellows  who  pass  me  as  if 
I  were  a  post.  You  have  become  a  sort  of  ama- 
teur striker,  have  you?" 

"No,  I  am  not  on  strike,  for  the  moment." 

"Understand  well.  I  do  not  reproach  you  for 
striking.  It  is  your  right;  my  family  also  is  on 
strike." 

The  wood-cutter  shrugged  his  shoulders, 
laughing. 

"You  are  joking,  General!" 

"Not  a  bit  of  it.  The  only  difference  is  that 
my  family  has  been  striking  for  four  hundred 
years,  and  has  taken  advantage  of  that  fact  to 
serve  the  country  almost  gratuitously  in  the 
army,  in  the  church,  and  in  diplomacy.  We  have 
not  changed  our  masters  nor  our  song.  It  is 
always  France.  But  you,  let  us  see,  do  you  still 
remember  the  regiment?" 

"Yes,  General." 

"You  remember  our  manoeuvres  in  Septem- 
ber? And  the  charges?  And  the  review?" 

"Yes,  General." 


THE    COMING    HARVEST      21 

"Was  the  regiment  badly  commanded,  badly 
fed,  badly  treated?" 

The  man  took  a  moment  for  reflection  before 
answering,  for  he  felt  that  "politics"  came  into 
this.  He  replied : 

"General,  we  were  well  treated.  I  have  nothing 
to  complain  of." 

"You  see,  Michel,  you  see.  He  has  been 
formed  in  my  school,  this  man  here;  he  has  good 
sense!  Now,  Gandhon,  admit  it,  you  are  wrong 
to  side  with  those  rebels  there.  Tell  me." 

"It  is  our  party." 

"Of  disorder?" 

"Possibly!" 

The  man  was  now  on  his  guard,  and  his  face, 
which  had  been  smiling  with  embarrassment,  be- 
came hard  and  defiant.  The  General  held  his 
head  erect.  Between  his  son  and  the  wood-cutter 
he  resembled  a  tall  forest  oak  between  two  young 
trees.  His  arm  was  outstretched,  as  if  he  were 
giving  a  command  in  the  barrack  yard. 

"I  do  not  want  you  to  tie  yourself  up  with  such 
rabble,  Gandhon!  I  know  you,  you're  a  hot- 
headed fellow,  but,  if  the  army  is  mobilized,  we 
shall  march  side  by  side,  and  of  what  you  were 
singing,  you  do  not  mean  a  word." 

There  was  no  reply. 

The  General  grew  pale.    He  took  a  step  forward. 

"It  is  not  possible!  You,  my  soldier!  Come, 
shake  your  General  by  the  hand!" 

The  wood-cutter  drew  back  sneering.  His 
companions  were  waiting  for  him,  and  they  were 
watching  him.  All  at  once  he  turned  slowly  on 


22      THE    COMING    HARVEST 

his  heels  and  started  on  in  the  path  of  his  com- 
rades. 

"But,  General,  the  regulations  forbid  treating 
soldiers  as  equals!" 

"It  is  from  friendship,  you  know  well!" 

"I  do  not  want  your  friendship!" 

Then  Gandhon  ran  with  long  awkward  strides 
on  account  of  his  wooden  shoes,  toward  a  group 
of  his  comrades  who  were  standing  some  fifty 
yards  away.  They  resumed  their  march,  and  a 
young  voice  started  again  one  of  the  spiteful 
couplets  of  the  spiteful  song.  Through  the  im- 
mense delusive  peace  of  the  forest,  the  words 
passed  on  to  tell  in  all  the  distant  places  that  the 
fiercest  political  passions  had  invaded  the  country. 

When  the  noise  of  the  steps  and  voices  had 
died  away,  General  de  Meximieu  stopped  looking 
at  the  blue  shadow  into  which  all  this  bad  dream 
had  vanished,  and  he  regarded  his  son,  who  was 
standing  at  his  right,  his  son  who  was  less  tall 
than  he,  less  handsome,  less  prepared,  it  seemed, 
for  a  life  of  struggle,  of  daring,  and  of  defiance. 
Although  the  shadows  were  heavy,  Michel  felt 
the  disdainful  compassion,  the  kind  of  disavowal 
which  had  always  crushed  his  youth. 

"Well,  my  boy,  your  trade  is  not  a  merry  one 
with  brutes  such  as  these  people!" 

"What  do  you  expect?  It  is  the  coming  to  a 
head " 

"Of  what?" 

"Of  many  mistakes.  No  one  of  us  is  with- 
out responsibility." 

"That  is  not  so!    I  have  none!    I  do  not  want 


THE    COMING    HARVEST      23 

any  of  your  responsibilities!  Tell  me  which  mine 
were?  What  a  wretched  people!  Good  for 
nothing!  They  have  no  more  love  for  France 
than  my  Arabs  of  Blida  had.  And  you  defend 
them!" 

For  the  second  time  Michel  felt  himself  envel- 
oped by  a  contempt  which  included  everything 
about  him,  his  ideas,  his  profession,  his  mediocre 
physique,  his  silence  of  a  few  moments  ago  which 
the  General  must  have  thought  came  from  fear. 
He  could  not  call  up  the  strength  which  he  always 
promised  himself  to  have  for  discussing,  refuting, 
and  explaining  in  order  to  be  respectful  toward 
his  father  and  consistent  with  his  own  ideas. 

"Come,  father,"  he  said,  "since  you  must  be 
in  Paris  by  to-morrow,  come." 

He  drew  up  the  collar  of  his  coat.  The  General 
at  once  unbuttoned  his  jacket.  Both  began  to 
walk  along  the  forest  road  that  led  toward  the 
chateau.  It  was  very  cold ;  the  wind  had  already 
taken  from  the  branches  the  warmth  which  the 
day  had  left  there.  It  turned  back  the  twigs,  and 
bent  down  the  small  branches,  drawing  from 
them  a  wail  as  dreary  as  that  from  a  desolate  life. 
The  pungent  odor  of  the  dead  leaves  rose  in  the 
dusk.  Above  the  branches,  the  sky  was  light,  and 
the  stars  were  beginning  to  peep  out. 

"Will  you  come  back?"  asked  Michel;  "I  have 
scarcely  had  time  to  see  you." 

"My  post  at  Paris  is  extremely  exacting,  my 
dear  fellow.  And  then  there  is  always  the  world, 
social  obligations.  I  always  hesitate  to  take  any 
leave.  However,  you  told  me  that  the  wood 


24      THE    COMING    HARVEST 

merchant  agreed  to  pay  for  the  newly  marked 
oaks,  even  before  cutting  them?" 

"Yes." 

"I  will  come  back  again  then,  for  the  settle- 
ment on  the  31st.  You  have  marked  all  the  old 
trees  in  the  two  clearings?" 

"Nearly  all." 

"How  do  you  mean,  nearly?  I  must  have  the 
thirty  thousand  francs  which  I  have  asked  you 
for,  in  four  different  payments,  and,  if  possible, 
in  two.  Are  they  there?  " 

Michel  made  an  evasive  gesture. 

"I  tell  you  it  is  absolutely  necessary  that  I 
should  have  them!"  repeated  General  de  Mexi- 
mieu,  raising  his  voice.  "It  is  for  you  to  find 
them;  you  will  go  back  to-morrow  to  the  clear- 
ing, and  if  there  are  not  enough  old  trees,  have 
half-grown  ones  cut;  if  there  are  not  enough  of 
them,  still  younger  ones." 

"No,  father." 

The  two  men  stopped  there  in  the  middle  of  the 
woods,  in  the  wind,  forgetful  both  of  them  of  the 
hour  which  urged  departure.  The  Marquis  de 
Meximieu's  hand — a  bundle  of  steel  cords  through 
which  an  electric  current  passed — came  down 
upon  Michel's  shoulder. 

"Who  is  the  master  here?  I  am  not  in  the 
habit  of  repeating  my  commands." 

General  de  Meximieu  saw,  turned  toward  him, 
a  face  as  firm  and  as  harsh  in  expression  as  even 
his  own  could  be. 

"It  is  impossible,  father.  How  are  you  con- 
sidering the  future  of  the  estate?" 


THE    COMING    HARVEST      25 

"It  belongs  to  me,  I  believe." 

"You  forget  that  it  is  also  my  future,  and 
that  my  life  is  here,  and  that  I  can  not  ruin  the 
woods. " 

The  General's  only  response  was  to  resume  his 
walk,  saying: 

"I  have  only  one  reason  to  give  you  and 
that  is  worth  all  the  others:  I  must  have  the 
money." 

They  continued  to  walk  rapidly  in  the  twilight, 
without  talking  any  more.  In  a  little  while  the 
forest  grew  more  open;  the  lofty  trees  separated 
into  gigantic  wings,  bristled  to  the  top  by  the 
wind,  and  between  their  ranks,  upon  the  swollen 
soil  which  they  must  have  occupied  for  a  long 
time,  Fonteneilles  appeared  in  the  twilight,  in  the 
midst  of  the  open  and  rising  fields.  It  was  a 
chateau  of  the  eighteenth  century,  built  upon  a 
terrace ;  one  single  story,  with  seven  windows  in  the 
fagade,  rose  above  the  ground  floor,  and  above  that 
was  a  sloping  roof  of  tiles  with  two  round  towers, 
capped  with  pointed  roofs  which,  however,  were 
no  higher  than  the  rest  of  the  building.  These 
towers  formed  the  projecting  mass  at  the  two 
ends;  but  they  did  not  prolong  the  fagade, 
which  kept  its  severe,  compact  and  settled  aspect. 
The  two  men  crossed  a  small  grass  plot  and 
mounted  the  steps  of  the  little  stone  stairway 
which  led  to  the  terrace  where,  in  summer,  the 
boxes  of  orange-trees  were  placed  in  line,  and 
then,  as  they  turned  to  the  right,  they  saw  in  the 
court  the  lanterns  of  the  victoria  which  was  wait- 
ing. During  the  walk  General  de  Meximieu  had 


COLLEGE 


26     THE    COMING    HARVEST 

changed  his  humour  but  not  his  ideas.  He  had 
seen  so  little  of  his  son  during  these  twenty-four 
hours  of  his  stay  at  Fonteneilles !  A  crowd  of 
unasked  questions  rose  in  his  mind.  At  the 
corner  of  the  chateau  where  the  wall  descended 
obliquely  and  penetrated  the  damp  soil,  he 
stopped  and  turned  to  Michel. 

"Are  you  on  good  terms  with  your  neighbours?  " 

" Neither  good  nor  bad;  I  only  meet  them  at 
the  fairs." 

"Those  are  a  queer  kind  of  festivities  and  hard- 
ly what  one  would  call  social.  Do  you  ever  see 
Jacquemin,  the  lieutenant,  who  used  to  serve 
under  my  command?" 

"Yes,  I  have  met  him;  Vaucreuse  is  so  near. 
I  have  even  called  upon  him." 

"Apparently  he  makes  farming  pay.  He's  a 
shrewd  fellow." 

"He  is  very  unpretending." 

"He  has  a  daughter,  who,  they  say,  is  pretty. 
Is  it  true?" 

"She's  just  a  child;  seventeen  or  eighteen 
years  old." 

"Fair,  like  her  mother,  is  she  not?" 

"Yes;  a  rare  blond,  the  colour  of  wheat  sheaves, 
red  gold  and  yellow  gold  together." 

"Why!  You  are  a  connoisseur,  my  boy!  Sa- 
pristi,  but  the  mother  was  pretty!  Poor  woman! 
I  remember  her  one  evening,  at  the  Monthuile's; 
she  was  not  exactly  beautiful,  but  she  was  full  of 
grace  and  joy  and  life." 

"You  knew  her  well?" 

"No;  I  just  admired  her  in  passing,  bowed  to 


THE    COMING    HARVEST      27 
• 

her,  and  dreamt  about  her  like  so  many  others. 
And  the  new  priest,  what  is  his  name?" 

"Roubiaux." 

"He  can  not  have  had  a  very  pleasant  time  in 
his  six  months  here !  But  I  wager  that  you  two  get 
along  well  together.  Possibly  you  are  the  most 
clerical  of  the  two?" 

"I'm  not  sure,"  said  Michel  seriously;  "we 
have  never  had  any  talk  on  religious  subjects. 
But  he  made  rather  a  good  impression  on  me." 

"Well,  so  much  the  better.  He's  a  little  Mor- 
vandian,  isn't  he?  Quite  dark?" 

"Yes." 

"Who  has  ears  without  a  rim  and  a  sun-burned 
skin?  Deucedly  timid?" 

"Not  when  it  is  necessary  to  hold  his  own." 

"He  must  be  the  one  I  passed  yesterday  on  the 
way  here.  He  has  abominable  parishioners." 

The  General  found  his  purse  and  took  from  it 
a  hundred-franc  note. 

"Tell  me,  Michel,  would  you  like  to  give  him 
that  for  his  charities?  Do  not  mention  me.  It  is 
not  worth  while.  But  I  come  so  rarely  to  Fon- 
teneilles  that  the  least  I  can  do  is  to  leave  some- 
thing for  the  poor." 

In  taking  the  note,  Michel  pressed  the  hand  of 
his  father,  who  went  right  on: 

' '  You  know  that  I  do  not  like  effusiveness.  There 
is  no  use  in  thanking  me.  What?  More  repairs? 
I  have  no  time  now  to  talk  to  you  about  them. 
Are  they  pressing  ones?" 

"Unfortunately,  yes!  I  wrote  you  about 
them." 


28     THE    COMING    HARVEST 

"But,  my  dear  fellow,  I  have  seen  everything! 
The  roof,  the  stables,  the  saddle-room,  the  roof 
of  the  piggery,  the  stable-boy's  room — everything. 
It  must  all  be  put  off  until  the  end  of  the  month. 
Adieu!" 

General  de  Meximieu  jumped  quickly  into  the 
carriage : 

"  Drive  fast,  Baptiste.  —  To  the  station  of 
Corbigny!" 

He  leaned  out  of  the  carriage. 

"Tell  me,  Michel,  can  you  hire  autos  at  Cor- 
bigny?" 

"Yes." 

"I  shall  hire  one  the  next  time,  then.  The  age 
of  "victorias"  is  passed.  Adieu!" 

The  carriage  was  already  climbing  the  avenue. 
One  after  the  other,  under  the  light  of  the  lan- 
terns, the  spotted  trunks  of  the  beeches  came  out 
from  the  shadows  and  disappeared.  At  last  the 
victoria  turned  to  the  right  and  was  lost  behind 
the  hedges  of  the  road. 

Immediately  after  a  very  short  dinner — at  a 
table  set  for  one  in  the  middle  of  the  big  dining- 
room,  beneath  the  two  chandeliers,  veiled  in  yellow 
gauze,  which  had  lighted  fifty  guests  in  former  days 
— Michel  went  to  his  room.  He  followed  the  corri- 
dor of  the  first  floor  to  the  end  and  pushed  open 
the  last  door  at  the  right.  He  had  groped  his 
way  in  the  darkness  and  he  crossed  the  room  in 
the  same  manner  to  the  window  which  looked 
out  on  the  short  semi-circular  meadow  and  upon 
the  forest,  and  leaned  out. 

The  cold  seemed  to  have  grown  less,  because 


THE    COMING    HARVEST      29 

the  wind  had  died  down.  The  waning  moon  was 
just  rising  and  already  began  to  mingle  its  light 
with  that  of  the  stars,  and  scarves  of  mist  stretch- 
ing over  the  forest,  the  ponds  and  the  meadows, 
shone  like  white  snow  or  like  new  furrows  cov- 
ered by  the  hoar  frost  of  the  morning. 

Youth  stirred  in  Michel's  veins.  He  shivered 
with  the  love  which  is  born  from  the  meeting  of 
the  soul  with  the  life  that  is  really  made  for  it. 
Without  opening  his  lips  and  heard  by  no  one,  he 
called  to  the  forest:  "I  am  sad  at  heart  to  have 
to  lessen  your  beauty!"  And  his  heart,  closed  to 
men,  was  at  last  free  to  bewail  itself.  "To  have 
to  cut  down  oaks,  again  and  again!  The  aged 
ones,  the  half  grown,  and  the  young  trees!  and  I 
can  not  refuse.  I  am  not  the  master.  Yet  even 
the  forest  itself  can  not  suffice  for  this  perpetual 
need  of  money.  It  is  being  sacrificed,  dishon- 
oured. It  is  the  future  that  I  am  destroying. 
Soon  there  will  be  no  forest,  merely  the  under- 
brush without  a  single  head  to  tower  above  the 
others,  not  even  a  dead  trunk  on  which  a  passing 
falcon  can  rest!  And  that  is  my  work!  All  the 
rest,  my  efforts,  improvements,  new  methods,  ma- 
chinery, my  father  does  not  even  ask  about. 
When  he  is  told,  he  gives  neither  thanks  nor 
approval.  I  will  speak  to  him  when  he  comes 
back.  If  he  should  tell  me  then  that  he  would  give 
up  to  me  a  part  of  the  estate  in  full  ownership,  as 
he  led  me  to  think  he  would  do  when  I  came  to 
live  here! — the  farm  of  Fonteneilles,  for  instance. 
I  could  live  and  I  should  be  sure  of  succeed- 
ing. I  would  pledge  myself,  if  they  wanted  me  to, 


30     THE    COMING    HARVEST 

to  repair  the  chateau.  But  how  to  make  my 
father  listen  to  me!  Shall  I  ever  succeed?  Per- 
haps. This  is  what  I  shall  do." 

The  young  man  continued  to  dream,  and  to 
make  plans  for  his  future.  He  had  good  reason 
for  doing  so.  No  one  ever  planned  for  him.  And 
he  knew  that  he  would  only  have  a  few  moments 
to  explain  his  plan,  and  to  receive  his  reply,  good 
or  bad.  People  were  rarely  able  to  discuss  any 
subject  whatever  with  General  de  Meximieu. 
Neither  soldier,  nor  civilian,  neither  his  chief  nor 
his  family,  could  flatter  themselves  that  they  had 
explained  any  idea  freely  and  completely  before 
this  man  who  was  always  in  a  hurry,  who  under- 
stood too  quickly,  who  walked  while  he  talked, 
interrupted,  remembered,  found  a  quick  conclu- 
sion and  often  a  just  one,  and  was  contented  to 
hold  it.  He  had  no  idea  of  economy  of  any  sort, 
but  acted  entirely  on  impulse,  with  a  habit  of 
spurring,  galloping,  and  then  turning  short.  Those 
who  knew  him  slightly  thought  this  was  clever- 
ness; those  who  knew  him  well  knew  that  it  was 
his  nature,  a  vagabond  way  that  was  tyrannical 
toward  himself,  of  spending  the  force  of  a  body 
which  did  not  grow  old  and  of  a  mind  which  had 
not  matured.  He  was  perpetually  in  movement, 
made  to  act  and  to  hurry  along,  but  he  was  not 
a  judge  who  could  weigh  two  opinions.  The  fac- 
ulty of  judgment  had  remained  rudimentary  with 
him ;  the  delay  which  it  necessitated  appeared  to 
him  to  be  weakness.  He  had  no  taste  for  home 
life,  just  as  he  had  no  feelings  of  intimacy.  This 
was  one  of  the  reasons  which  had  prevented  him 


THE    COMING    HARVEST      31 

from  understanding  Michel  and  from  being  under- 
stood by  him. 

It  is  true,  there  was  another  reason  which  had 
kept  this  father  and  son  strangers  to  each  other 
and  constantly  irritated  by  the  feeling  of  distance 
and  of  something  not  understood  which  separated 
them.  Several  times,  in  recent  years,  the  papers 
had  published  the  official  notice  of  General  deMexi- 
mieu's  service.  A  career  of  rapid  promotion,  in 
which  influence  had  had  only  a  secondary  place.  It 
was  as  follows:  " Philippe  de  Meximieu,  born  at 
Paris,  November  15,  1843;  graduated  from  the 
school  of  Saint-Cyr  in  1864,  was  appointed  Second 
Lieutenant  of  the  5th  Dragoons,  at  Pont-a- 
Mousson;  Lieutenant  in  the  same  regiment,  at 
Maubeuge,  in  1870;  wounded  in  the  war,  men- 
tioned in  the  order  of  the  day  and  decorated; 
Captain  in  the  2nd  Dragoons,  at  Chartres,  in  1871 ; 
Chief  of  Squadron  in  the  5th  Chasseurs  of  Africa, 
at  Blida,  in  1881 ;  Lieutenant-Colonel  of  the  6th 
Cuirassiers  at  Cambrai  in  1887 ;  Colonel  of  the  1st 
Cuirassiers  at  Paris  in  1892;  General  command- 
ing the  Brigade  of  Dragoons  at  Vincennes  in  1897; 
General  of  division,  commanding  the  1st  division 
of  cavalry  at  Paris,  in  1901." 

It  was  at  Chartres,  in  1879,  that  Captain  de 
Meximieu  married  Benoite  de  Magny.  He  was 
over  thirty-five.  She  was  twenty-seven.  Michel 
was  born  the  following  year,  and,  a  little  later,  the 
Captain,  who  had  been  appointed  Chief  of  Squad- 
ron, was  sent  to  Blida.  He  had  "asked  for  Afri- 
ca" once.  They  gave  it  to  him  when  he  no  longer 
wanted  it.  But  he  did  not  hesitate  a  moment 


32      THE    COMING    HARVEST 

about  starting.  Madame  de  Meximieu,  however, 
refused  to  follow  him.  She  gave  as  a  reason  the 
health  of  their  child.  There  was  no  discussion. 
"As  you  like;  I  am  a  soldier;  I  march  to  the 
sound  of  the  bugle  as  you  to  that  of  the  piano." 
But  their  life  together  was  ended.  Madame  de 
Meximieu  established  herself  in  Paris,  in  an  apart- 
ment in  the  same  house  where  her  mother,  Ma- 
dame de  Magny,  lived.  Six  years  passed  in  this 
way,  and  at  the  end  of  that  time,  Monsieur  de 
Meximieu  being  ordered  to  Cambrai,  she  ob- 
tained even  more  easily  than  at  first,  and  as  a 
matter  of  no  importance  to  her  husband,  what  she 
called  "an  extension  of  leave." 

The  habit  of  living  apart  was  formed  on  both 
sides.  When  the  officer  returned  to  Paris  to  com- 
mand the  1st  Cuirassiers,  he  found  his  son  no 
longer  a  child,  and  the  time  for  making  plans 
about  his  education  had  passed  forever.  The  de- 
cisive period  was  over.  Eleven  years  do  not 
make  a  man,  but  they  determine  his  destiny. 
Michel  was  not  fitted  either  physically  or  morally 
to  be  the  soldier  who  should  continue  the  tradi- 
tion of  his  race.  A  kind  of  melancholy,  a  mute 
and  haughty  sensitiveness,  and  the  already  de- 
veloped power  of  suffering  alone,  showed  a  dif- 
ference of  character  between  son  and  father,  and 
son  and  mother,  which  the  early  training  had  in- 
creased. Michel,  entrusted  at  first  to  governesses, 
had  just  then  been  placed,  as  day-scholar,  in  the 
Chaperot  Institute,  an  "old  family  school,"  the 
prospectus  said,  established  in  the  "Ternes" 
quarter,  and  under  the  direction  of  an  association 


THE    COMING    HARVEST      33 

of  professors  and  lay-tutors.  The  choice  of  this 
neutral  establishment,  midway  between  the  Cath- 
olic college  and  the  Lycee,  had  been  made  by  mu- 
tual agreement  between  Monsieur  and  Madame 
de  Meximieu.  The  latter  had  herself  selected  the 
Chaperot  Institute,  whose  chaplain  she  knew,  who 
was  also  a  non-resident  and  watched.  Michel  used 
to  start  off  early  in  the  morning  and  come  home 
only  to  find  his  mother  getting  ready  to  go  out,  five 
days  out  of  seven.  The  Colonel  dined  later  than 
his  wife,  or  dined  at  his  club.  The  child  had  had, 
from  his  earliest  years,  the  feeling  that  he  was  in 
the  way.  This  thought  continued  to  weigh  on 
him  as  he  grew  up.  At  eighteen,  his  trouble  was 
clearly  defined.  On  the  day  following  his  bacca- 
laureate examinations,  in  the  evening — how 
clearly  he  remembered  the  details;  the  hour, 
which  the  Buhl  clock  marked;  the  half  circle  of 
chairs  just  as  they  had  been  left  by  visitors  who 
had  filed  in  all  the  afternoon ;  his  father  standing, 
leaning  against  the  mantelpiece;  his  mother 
seated  in  a  blue  easy  chair — he  had  suffered  an- 
other examination,  shorter  but  more  severe. 
"Well!  Michel,  what  career  do  you  choose? 
There  is  only  one  which  I  forbid  you;  the  army. 
Why?  It  is  no  longer  what  it  was,  and  then,  you 
are  not  cut  out  for  a  soldier!"  A  glance  had  com- 
pleted the  thought,  the  cruel  thought.  The  child 
had  not  become  the  demi-god  they  had  dreamed 
of.  He  did  not  appear  to  belong  to  the  tradi- 
tionally handsome  race  of  the  Meximieu;  he 
would  never  be  the  elegant  cavalier,  the  born 
man  of  war,  the  pride  of  his  soldiers  and  secret 


34     THE    COMING    HARVEST 

admiration  of  the  multitude,  like  General  Phi- 
lippe de  Meximieu,  like  his  grandfather,  and  his 
great  grandfather  and  the  Field  Marshall  to  whom 
Louis  XIV.  had  said:  " Meximieu,  there  is  only 
one  of  the  Queen's  maids  of  honour  who  can 
boast  a  better  shaped  waist  than  you."  Michel 
had  understood  the  implication.  "Be  reassured," 
he  had  answered,  "I  shall  be  a  farmer." 

He  had  determined  on  this  career  long  before 
they  had  asked  him  for  a  reply.  He  loved,  with 
a  love  inherited  no  doubt  from  distant  ancestors, 
and  with  the  love  of  a  child  whose  world  has 
laughed  at  him,  the  forests,  the  grass,  the  soli- 
tude which  the  peasants  who  pass  by  do  not  dis- 
turb, and  the  chateau  in  which  some  memories  of 
the  past  of  the  family  survived.  He  wished  to 
take  up  again  the  tradition  of  a  number  of  his  an- 
cestors, the  noble  and  useful  role  of  a  liberal  and 
educated  land-holder,  to  restock  the  forests,  to 
refill  the  stables,  to  introduce  new  methods  of 
agriculture,  to  serve  the  soil,  and,  through  it, 
France.  The  only  happy  days  which  he  remem- 
bered were  the  three  or  four  weeks  of  the  early 
Autumn  passed  every  year  at  Fonteneilles  on  the 
return  from  the  season  at  Trouville. 

Very  soon  after  this  conversation  which  de- 
cided his  career,  Michel  left  for  the  north,  and 
studied  at  the  school  of  agriculture  which  the 
Brothers  of  the  Christian  Doctrine  directed  at 
Beauvais.  The  following  year  he  performed  his 
military  service  at  Bourges.  And,  at  last,  in  the 
middle  of  November,  1900,  he  arrived  at  Cor- 
bigny.  On  a  dreamy,  golden  day  he  crossed  the 


THE    COMING    HARVEST      35 

forest  of  Fonteneilles;  he  lifted  his  hat  on  seeing 
the  roofs  of  the  abandoned  chateau;  he  listened 
with  ecstasy  to  the  noise  of  the  shutters,  which 
the  guard  Renard  pushed  open  one  after  the 
other;  he  entered;  he  caressed  the  stones  of  the 
wall ;  he  was  at  home. 

Five  years  had  passed!  How  much  work! 
How  many  undertakings!  What  consoling  inti- 
macy between  the  soil  and  the  child  of  the  an- 
cient race  who  had  returned  to  it!  Five  rapid, 
full  years,  without  incident;  the  time  to  learn  his 
trade,  to  lessen  some  of  the  prejudices  and  the 
enmities  which  had  grown  up  during  his  absence 
and  to  plan  for  the  future  and  to  taste  all  the 
sunshine  and  all  the  shadow  of  home.  And  now 
Monsieur  de  Meximieu  threatened  to  ruin  it  all 
with  his  demands  for  money.  It  was  the  estate 
which  needed  capital ;  it  was  the  chateau. 

The  light  grew  clearer  over  the  forest,  and  the 
floating  fringes  of  mist  were  touched  by  the  light 
from  the  red  ball  of  the  moon  between  the  hills.  A 
dog  was  barking  like  mad  far  off,  toward  the  lake 
of  Vaux.  The  swift  flight  of  birds  of  passage  or 
of  prey  whispered  through  the  night. 

How  could  he  secure  from  the  General  any 
assurance  for  his  own  future?  Who  was  there 
who  could  speak  to  him?  Who?  Possibly  Ma- 
dame de  Meximieu.  She  had  always  been  kind, 
that  mother  still  blond  and  pretty  in  spite  of  her 
fifty  years  and  very  kind.  Naturally  she  had  no 
right  to  give  away  the  farm  and  chateau  which 
did  not  belong  to  her.  But  she  would  not  refuse 
to  intervene  and  to  plead  for  him.  She  was 


36     THE    COMING    HARVEST 

clever  at  recommending  the  young  officers  who 
confided  their  interests  to  her;  was  it  not  Mi- 
chel's turn  now?  She  would  surely  not  object. 
She  loved  her  son  with  an  affection  which,  if  inac- 
tive, was  still  real.  For  a  long  time  she  had  held 
it  against  him  that  he  was  not  a  daughter,  a 
daughter  whom  she  could  have  spoiled,  adored, 
and  kept  near  her.  But  since  Michel  had  been 
living  at  Nievre,  her  affection  and  her  desire  to 
see  and  encourage  her  son  had  brought  her  twice 
to  Fonteneilles.  Neither  the  forests  nor  the 
meadows  had  any  attractions  for  her;  she  had  a 
horror  of  the  country:  yet  what  pleasant  walks 
they  had  had,  what  eagerness  she  had  shown  to 
learn  about  rural  things!  "You  must  show  me 
your  Rambouillet  ram.  —  Explain  to  me  the 
difference  between  an  oak  and  a  beech  tree.  — 
Can't  you  have  some  grain  sowed  before  me  ?  — 
They  say  that  it  is  a  very  pretty  sight." 

Yes,  she  would  be  his  ally  in  this  affair.  Through 
her  or  through  some  other  means  the  estate  must 
be  protected  and  kept  in  his  hands.  There  lay  the 
possibility  of  wealth  in  the  future  and  perhaps 
happiness!  Also  the  certainty  of  a  useful  life! 
The  vision  of  the  band  of  wood-cutters,  chanting 
the  Internationale  and  provoking  General  de 
Meximieu,  the  military  chief,  the  rich  descendant 
of  a  feudal  race,  passed  through  the  young  man's 
mind.  His  mouth  drooped,  and  with  a  sad  smile 
he  gazed  out  into  the  night  at  the  waving 
phantoms  of  those  ancestral  trees  under  which 
but  a  short  time  ago  the  song  of  hatred  had 
sounded. 


THE    COMING    HARVEST      37 

"What  am  I  good  for?"  he  murmured.  "I  did 
not  want  to  come  here,  just  to  shut  myself  up 
here,  to  live  and  die  here  for  myself  alone;  I 
wished,  I  always  do  wish  for  the  uplifting  of  these 
men  of  the  soil.  What  moral  good  have  I  done 
so  far?  What  influence  have  I  gained?  What 
friendship  from  a  single  one  of  them?  Think  of 
that  procession  of  men  this  evening.  My  father's 
words,  which  were  really  so  noble,  and  that  reply 
of  Gandhon,  who  was  a  soldier  only  yesterday ! 
Ah!  I  know  well  that  this  is  not  the  whole  of 
France,  that  it  is  only  a  corner  of  the  country 
more  undermined  than  the  others  by  evil,  more 
debased  by  jealous  passion,  but  still.  —  How 
good  it  must  have  been  in  old  times  to  live 
in  a  sound,  healthy  nation!  With  the  same  faith! 
The  same  festivals!  Where  words  meant  the 
same  thing  to  everybody.  What  a  spring  of  in- 
telligence and  of  love  has  been  lost !  And  they  do 
not  know  it.  I  see  them  swallow  the  poison,  and 
laugh,  and  sing,  while  they  are  already  pallid  with 
approaching  death!  Ah,  these  poor  people,  who 
proclaim  their  disease  as  a  victory!" 

Michel  straightened  himself  up  and  listened  a 
moment;  then  something  within  him  spoke,  and 
said: 

"After  all,  I  belong  altogether  to  them!  It 
must  be!  I  love  them!" 

The  night  grew  soft,  and  a  peace  unknown  to 
the  day  descended  on  the  deserted  fields. 

Some  hundred  yards  distant  from  the  window 
where  Michel  was  dreaming,  in  a  shadowy  fold  of 
the  mist,  a  little  village  slept,  its  fires  out.  There 


38       THE    COMING     HARVEST 

were  five  houses  in  all,  three  on  the  left  of  the 
forest  path  and  two  on  the  right.  In  one  of  them, 
a  poor  man  was  also  thinking.  It  was  Gilbert 
Cloquet,  and  the  thought  which  held  him  was 
that  of  poverty.  Lying  on  his  wooden  bed,  be- 
tween the  wall  and  the  hearth,  he  was  thinking 
of  "his  affairs"  which  were  going  badly.  He 
earned  less  than  he  needed.  "It  is  true,"  he  said 
to  himself,  "that  I  have  enough  bread  and  even 
stew  to  eat  with  it ;  it  is  also  true  that  I  can  always 
buy  what  wine  I  want  from  the  lock-keeper  of  the 
canal" — the  sourish  odour  from  the  little  cask 
wedged  in  a  corner  of  the  room  floated  through 
the  place,  mingled  with  the  remains  of  the  smoke — 
"but  I  need  some  new  Sunday  clothes  and  I  can 
not  buy  them.  That  is  no  great  misfortune.  The 
trouble  comes  from  something  else.  It  comes 
from  Marie.  She  is  extravagant;  she  is  always 
coming  to  me  and  saying:  'Father,  I  have  no 
more  grain  for  the  poultry!  Father,  the  baker 
refuses  us  credit.  We  are  behind  in  the  rent. 
The  proprietor  of  Epine  is  going  to  attach  us!' 
To  attach  the  house  of  the  daughter  of  Gilbert 
Cloquet!  No,  I  will  never  allow  that.  First  thing 
to-morrow  I  will  take  Marie  half  of  the  twenty 
francs  which  I  have  received  for  the  work  which 
I  have  not  yet  begun  in  the  woods.  And  then, 
when  the  grass  is  high  enough,  I  will  go  to  Mon- 
sieur Michel  and  hire  myself  out  to  cut  his  hay." 
The  labourer  turned  over  in  bed  trying  to 
escape  the  depressing  thoughts  which  had  kept 
him  awake  for  hours.  He  heard  the  dog  of 
his  neighbours,  the  Justamond's,  barking  at  the 


THE    COMING    HARVEST      39 

dead  leaves  blown  about  by  the  wind,  or  at  the 
passage  of  some  prowling  animal.  Then  absolute 
silence  fell.  The  cold  dew  outside  stiffened  the 
grass.  The  poor  man  went  on  thinking:  "There 
is  no  one  who  cares  for  me,  except  Monsieur 
Michel,  who  gives  me  as  much  work  as  he  can; 
and  yet,  he  is  a  nobleman,  and  they  say  that 
noblemen  are  no  good." 


n. 


THE  INNER  LIFE  OF  A  POOR  MAN. 

GILBERT  CLOQUET  had  been  at  the  public  school 
of  Fonteneilles  about  1860,  and  oh!  how  long  ago 
that  was!  He  had  learned  to  read,  to  write,  to 
count,  and  to-day,  a  man  of  fifty,  although  he 
barely  knew  how  to  write  any  more,  for  want  of 
practice,  he  still  counted  very  well,  and  read, 
without  difficulty,  the  papers  and  hand-bills  and 
even  "  printed  writing,"  which  proves  that  his 
teaching  had  been  good.  He  had  had  to  recite  the 
catechism,  sometimes  well,  sometimes  poorly,  to 
the  teacher,  who  showed  himself  as  exacting  for 
that  lesson  as  for  the  others,  and  who  liked  to 
have  him  recite  it  word  for  word.  There  were 
occasionally  paternal  visits  of  inspection  from  the 
priest  of  that  time,  who  asked  a  few  questions  en- 
couraged them,  told  them  a  story  and  then  went 
away  congratulating  the  master,  and  after  an 
examination  and  a  short  review  of  the  catechism 
before  his  first  communion,  Gilbert  Cloquet  had 
been  judged,  by  the  highest  authorities  whom  he 
knew,  sufficiently  equipped  to  live  honestly,  to 
resist  all  evil  from  without  and  from  within,  and 
later  to  bring  up  the  children  who  might  be  born 
to  him. 
"You  are  a  grown  boy  now,  my  Gilbert,"  said 

40 


THE    COMING    HARVEST      41 

his  mother  to  him  one  day;  " you  are  eleven  years 
old,  and  you  must  begin  to  earn  your  living. 
We  will  go  to  the  hiring  at  Bazolles,  although  it 
makes  my  heart  ache  to  send  you  away  from  me." 
The  hiring  took  place,  as  was  the  custom  at 
Bazolles,  on  the  following  Sunday,  which  was 
that  before  the  Feast  of  Saint  John,  just  as  at 
Corbigny  it  is  held  on  the  Thursday  before  Cor- 
pus Christi.  The  sloping  market-place,  and  the 
road  which  crossed  it  as  a  river  crosses  a  lake, 
were  crowded  with  farmers,  who  had  come  to  find 
labourers,  and  with  young  people  who  wanted  to 
"hire  themselves  out."  The  young  men  who 
wanted  a  place  as  carter  had  a  whip  hung  around 
their  neck;  those  who  would  be  field  labourers  were 
biting  a  green  leaf  or  wore  one  on  their  hat ;  the  girls 
held  a  rose  in  their  hand,  and  they  were  poorly 
dressed,  in  their  worst  gown,  so  that  people  would 
not  think  them  extravagant;  but  each  of  them 
had,  wrapped  up  in  a  handkerchief  and  put  away 
in  a  corner  of  the  neighbouring  inn,  a  gown  for  the 
dance  and  a  bit  of  ribbon  to  tie  in  her  bodice. 
Each  one  had  brought  with  her  a  relative,  her 
mother  or  an  aunt  or  a  friend.  And  Gilbert  had 
near  him  his  mother,  anxious,  with  her  eyes  red, 
and  well  wrapped  up  in  her  " mourning  cloak," 
old  Mere  Cloquet,  who  was  known  all  through 
Bazolles  and  Fonteneilles,  and  even  beyond,  as  a 
poor,  but  industrious,  economical  and  tidy  woman. 
He  was  certainly  one  of  the  youngest  there,  as  the 
majority  of  the  servants  ranged  from  fifteen  to 
twenty  years  old  and  several  even  were  men 
grown  who  wanted  to  change  their  places  for 


42      THE    COMING    HARVEST 

reasons  of  fancy  or  money,  and  the  little  fellow 
motionless  at  the  foot  of  the  steps  of  the  tobacco 
shop — a  good  place  which  his  mother  had  chosen 
— asked  himself  if  there  would  be  any  master  who 
would  want  him;  a  little  fellow  of  eleven  years, 
in  wooden  shoes,  and  a  blue  blouse  with  white 
buttons,  with  a  face  like  that  of  a  fair  and  freckled 
girl,  but  with  keen,  observing  eyes  of  limpid  blue 
beneath  the  shadow  of  his  wide  hat.  Who  would 
come  to  hire  him?  And  his  little  wrinkled,  shriv- 
elled mother,  even  smaller  than  her  boy  and 
trembling  for  a  gesture  which  should  choose  him, 
wondered  anxiously  who  would  be  the  first  to 
accost  her  and  to  discuss  with  her  the  conditions 
of  the  hiring? 

It  was  one  of  the  largest  farmers  of  Fonteneilles, 
Monsieur  Honore  Fortier,  a  man  twenty-six  years 
old,  who  had  just  come  into  the  property  of  his 
father,  and  who  managed  the  hundred  acres  of  La 
Vigie. 

"Has  he  ever  looked  after  cows?"  he  inquired. 

"Often,  Monsieur  Fortier,"  replied  Gilbert's 
mother,  with  a  curtsey.  "He  is  not  afraid  of  them, 
and  his  ambition  is  to  plough  soon." 

"He  is  not  old  enough  for  that,  my  good 
woman,  but  the  lad  does  not  displease  me." 

He  looked  Gilbert  over,  as  he  would  have  done 
a  colt,  took  the  measure  of  his  chest  with  his  eye, 
felt  of  his  arm,  took  him  by  the  shoulder  and 
shook  him  to  see  if  he  was  vigorous;  then  said, 
brusquely: 

"Ten  francs  a  month,  to  begin,  Mere  Clo- 
quet?" 


THE    COMING    HARVEST      43 

"That  suits  me,  Monsieur  Fortier.  Take  off  your 
hat,  Gilbert,  since  Monsieur  Fortier  does  you  this 
honour." 

The  farmer  drew  from  his  pocket  a  five  franc 
piece  and  placed  it  in  her  hand;  then,  looking 
into  the  eyes  of  the  boy,  who  had  lifted  his  hat : 

"Listen  well,  shepherd;  two  years,  ten  years, 
twenty  years  you  can  stay  with  me,  if  you  wish 
to;  you  will  make  your  way;  I  make  one  condi- 
tion only,  it  is  that  you  shall  obey." 

Gilbert  shook  the  hand  of  Monsieur  Fortier,  and 
left  Bazolles  to  go  and  get  his  clothes,  for  that 
very  evening  he  must  go  to  La  Vigie. 

"Are  you  content?"  asked  his  mother. 

"Well  enough." 

"You  have  not  said  a  word." 

"There  was  no  need,"  replied  the  boy. 

This  was  all  quite  natural.  He  was  a  Niver- 
nais,  the  country  where  wills  are  strong,  even  vio- 
lent, but  where  the  face  is  expressionless  and  the 
tongue  generally  quiet. 

From  that  time,  La  Vigie  became  Gilbert's  home. 
It  was  a  farm  resting  proudly  on  the  summit 
of  a  round,  treeless  hill,  nearly  a  thousand  feet 
high,  with  one  hundred  acres  of  good  land  on 
level  slopes;  a  farm  which  the  wind  enveloped  as 
a  lighthouse  and  from  which  the  view  extended 
in  a  circle.  To  the  North  one  could  see  Beaulieu 
upon  its  blue- tinged  ridge ;  to  the  West  and  to  the 
South  there  lay  a  valley  of  grass  and  fields,  and 
beyond  Crux-la- Ville,  a  forest  rising  like  an  enor- 
mous and  long  wave  ready  to  break  into  foam, 
and  bearing  on  its  crest  the  ragged  fir  trees  of  an 


44     THE    COMING    HARVEST 

old  manorial  park ;  on  the  East  side  there  stretched 
a  landscape  so  vast  that  even  the  eyes  of  its  chil- 
dren have  never  known  it  all,  forests  again,  that  of 
Fonteneilles,  and  that  of  Vaux  with  its  village  of 
Vorroux,  sparkling  like  a  wild  poppy  in  the 
leaves,  with  the  bend  of  the  great  ponds  hidden 
by  the  lofty  forest  trees,  and  beyond  a  hollow  like 
a  great  shell,  with  a  succession  of  slopes  which 
seem  to  be  only  trees,  and  which  rise  from  story 
to  story  and  from  green  softness  to  blue  softness, 
up  to  the  hills  of  the  Morvan,  rounded,  transpar- 
ent and  changing  all  day  long  with  reflections  from 
the  depth  of  the  sky. 

The  beauty  of  this  landscape  had  mysterious 
charm  for  the  shepherd  of  La  Vigie,  the  little 
Cloquet  who  was  cutting  his  teeth,  and  whose  eye, 
getting  keener  in  the  open  air,  could  discover  a 
goshawk  floating  half-way  from  Collancelle.  He 
had  been  quick  to  learn  his  trade  and  to  wish  for 
another,  the  work  of  the  young  men,  to  drive 
horses,  or  to  crack  his  whip  at  the  head  of  the  yoked 
oxen,  singing  when  the  white  beasts,  Griveau, 
Chaveau,  Montagne,  and  Rossigneau,  slackened 
on  the  chain,  to  harrow,  to  cut  the  green  forage 
and  to  do  his  part  in  the  harvest  season.  He  went 
up  one  grade  and  was  better  paid.  He  had  to  work 
hard,  so  that  Monsieur  Honore  Fortier  could  pay 
his  rent,  which  was  ten  thousand  francs.  And  he 
wanted  for  nothing.  The  master  was  harsh  and 
always  on  hand.  He  governed  his  large  house- 
hold with  the  help  of  Madame  Fortier,  who  was 
equally  serious  and  severe.  The  master  himself 
acted  as  a  kind  of  overseer  presiding  at  the  ser- 


THE    COMING    HARVEST      45 

vant's  table,  when  there  were  four  farm  hands,  a 
shepherd,  a  maid  servant,  without  counting  the 
day-labourers  whom  they  hired  at  the  time  of  the 
heavy  work.  For  ten,  twelve  and  even  fourteen 
hours  the  soil  absorbed  all  the  powers  of  body 
and  mind  of  the  men.  How  should  it  help  yield- 
ing a  harvest?  At  the  meals,  which  were  taken  in 
the  kitchen  adjoining  the  master's  room,  Gilbert 
listened  in  silence  to  the  workmen.  They  talked 
about  the  work,  the  price  of  hay  and  current 
prices  at  the  fairs,  repeated  scandalous  gossip,  or 
told  coarse  stories  or  amusing  ones,  and  they 
rarely  spoke  of  politics.  The  oldest,  who  had 
served  in  the  army,  put  no  restraint  on  their  talk. 
There  was  never  a  word  which  could  either  lift, 
guide,  or  refresh  the  minds  of  these  men  or  lessen 
the  jealousies  which  divided  them;  nothing  but 
orders,  discipline,  and  a  supervision  of  a  purely 
external  kind,  and  the  desire  each  one  had  for  his 
own  interest  to  stay  at  La  Vigie.  On  Sunday, 
those  who  went  down  to  Fonteneilles  did  so  only 
in  the  afternoon. 

Only  the  two  women  who  directed  the  farm, 
the  wives  of  the  master  and  of  the  overseer, 
went  down  in  the  morning  to  mass.  They  had 
all  been  confirmed,  and  that  ceremony  over  the 
men  at  Fonteneilles,  if  not  anti-religious,  at  least 
showed  themselves  no  longer  at  church  except  at 
Easter,  All  Saints,  at  funerals,  or  sometimes  on 
the  3rd  of  May,  the  day  of  the  Finding  of  the 
Holy  Cross,  when  the  cure"  blessed  the  "  little 
crosses"  which  protected  the  " patrimony."  Mon- 
sieur Fortier  himself  on  Sunday  inspected  his 


46     THE    COMING    HARVEST 

lands,  smoked  his  pipe  and  made  up  his  accounts, 
or  else  he  harnessed  his  mare  to  the  yellow  spring 
wagon,  and  went  to  pay  a  visit  to  some  farmer  or 
cattle  merchant  in  the  neighbourhood.  Gilbert, 
in  the  beginning,  usually  put  on  his  best  suit  and, 
at  the  first  sound  of  the  church  bell,  ran  to  join  his 
mother  in  the  last  row  of  seats  near  the  font  of 
holy  water.  He  liked  to  warn  her  when  the  sac- 
ristan passed,  and  to  pay  for  the  two  chairs,  like 
a  man  who  was  earning  his  living  and  who  had 
the  proper  feeling.  His  mother  thought  him  re- 
ligious because  of  this.  She  feared  indeed  for  the 
future,  knowing  that  young  boys  are  seldom  good ; 
that  they  escape  even  from  mothers  who  are  near 
enough  to  watch  over  them,  and  that  they  can 
easily  deceive  mothers  who  are  far  away.  But 
she  showed  her  uneasiness  only  by  a  few  words 
spoken  low  to  Gilbert,  and  the  troubled  look  in 
her  eyes  even  when  she  smiled  at  him.  Her 
look  was  that  of  the  Ave  Maria,  which  she  often 
recited,  awake  or  half  asleep,  always  with  the 
same  vision  of  her  child  growing  up  and  adven- 
turous. "Happily  he  loves  me!"  she  thought. 
Her  husband  also  had  loved  her  and  that  gave 
her  a  little  confidence  in  the  men  of  her  house. 

At  La  Vigie,  the  seasons  passed  and  repassed 
quickly,  changing  upon  the  sides  of  the  hill,  from 
the  green  of  the  pastures  to  the  violet  of  the  fresh 
fallow  lands,  the  pale  yellow  of  the  oats  and 
the  red  gold  of  the  wheat.  At  dawn,  Monsieur 
Fortier,  standing  in  the  court;  among  the  labourers 
and  the  wagons,  would  sometimes  say : 

"Well,  boys,  there's  a  hard  day's  work  before 


THE    COMING    HARVEST      47 

us!  If  the  field  is  all  plowed  this  evening,  I'll 
pay  for  a  round  of  red  wine !  Who  is  going  to  get 
my  hay  in  before  the  storm?  Who  will  carry  the 
most  sacks  to  the  granary  ?  Who  will  dare  to 
climb  to  the  top  of  the  chestnut  tree  and  knock 
the  chestnuts  down?" 

At  those  times,  Gilbert  was  the  first  to  come  or 
to  go,  or  to  volunteer,  one  of  the  most  skilful  and 
the  most  enduring.  The  blond  little  boy  had 
become  a  tall,  fair  young  man,  who  was  serious, 
habitually  a  little  absent-minded,  but  with  eyes 
that  would  light  up  with  an  emotion  or  a  jest,  a 
defiance,  or  an  order,  which  drew  his  eyebrows 
together  and  lifted  up  the  corners  of  his  lips  under 
the  new  yellow  beard.  When  he  went  to  bed  at 
night,  upon  the  straw,  in  his  "lair"  in  the  old 
wagon  box  placed  at  the  left  of  the  stable-door, 
he  rarely  dreamed;  fatigue  prevented  him  from 
talking  with  his  older  companion  who  slept  on 
the  other  side  of  the  entrance;  he  slept  so  heavily 
that  neither  the  noise  of  the  chains,  which  the 
cows  dragged  or  let  fall  upon  the  floor  of  their 
stalls,  nor  their  lowing,  nor  the  stamping  of  the 
horses  in  the  stable  nearby  distupbed  his  rest. 
He  was  sober,  partly  from  economy,  partly  be- 
cause he  was  ambitious,  and  because  every  one  in 
the  villages  notices  the  men  who  are  never  over- 
come by  drink.  He  was  chaste  also,  from  lack  of 
temptation,  and  thanks  to  the  hard  work  which 
he  did.  He  grew  up,  in  fact,  straight  and  honest, 
without  any  one  being  able  to  say:  "It  is  on 
account  of  my  influence  that  he  is  better  than 
the  others." 


48      THE    COMING    HARVEST 

Until  he  was  of  age,  Gilbert  often  greeted  the 
cure  of  Fonteneilles,  but  only  once  did  he  see  him 
mount  to  La  Vigie  and  speak  to  the  men  assem- 
bled together.  This  was  during  the  war.  The 
abbe  brought  to  the  inhabitants  of  the  farm  a 
letter  from  an  old  servant,  drafted  from  Nievre, 
who  wrote  in  a  few  lines  some  sad  news.  He 
arrived  at  the  farm  on  one  of  the  evenings  of 
that  hard  winter  when  the  setting  suns  were  so 
red  that  mothers  were  frightened,  and  he  met 
Gilbert  Cloquet,  who  was  bringing  home  the  team 
from  the  plowing,  in  the  little  path  leading  from 
the  road  to  the  farm. 

"Ah!  Good-day,  Gilbert.  I  see  things  are  go- 
ing well  with  you.  How  you  have  grown!  It  is 
a  pity  that  one  sees  you  so  rarely  at  Fonteneilles!" 
Had  the  cure  added:  "Come  sometime  and  talk 
with  me!  I  am  a  friend,  I  assure  you,  and  you, 
you  are  a  soul,  a  dear  child,  who  is  entrusted  to 
me,  and  who  will  soon  have  no  religion  left  but  the 
seed  sowed  at  your  baptism;  come  and  see  me," 
perhaps  the  young  man  would  have  gone  to  the 
priest's  house.  Gilbert  seldom  went  to  the  village 
and  when  he  did  go,  it  was  to  the  inn  to  drink 
a  single  glass  with  his  comrades,  or,  sometimes  on 
market  days,  which  are  holidays  in  the  country, 
to  the  dancing  halls  or  to  the  platforms  erected 
in  front  of  the  houses,  where  the  young  girls  of 
Fonteneilles,  Bazolles,  and  Vitry-Lache,  came  to 
dance. 

One  could  easily  count  the  occasions  on  which 
he  had  found  himself  in  the  presence  of  the  great 
proprietors  of  that  region.  Once,  while  still  a  boy, 


THE    COMING    HARVEST      49 

he  had  delivered  a  heifer  at  the  chateau  of  Vau- 
creuse.  He  remembered  the  date  well ;  it  was  the 
3rd  of  May,  the  day  of  the  Finding  of  the  Holy  Cross. 
Madame  Fortier,  as  soon  as  the  morning  soup  had 
been  eaten,  had  summoned  the  new  drover. 
"You  are  to  start  for  Vaucreuse,  Gilbert.  In  go- 
ing down  pass  by  the  stubble-field  of  Troches,  and 
cut  me  there  a  dozen  little  crosses,  solid  ones 
and  one  particularly  fine  one  for  the  hemp-field,  and 
bring  them  to  me  when  you  come  back.  Find  a 
boy  to  watch  the  heifer  while  you  are  having  them 
blessed,  but  be  careful  whom  you  trust  her  to." 

"I  will  take  care,  Madame  Fortier,"  the  drover 
had  replied.  And  he  had  gone  off  dressed  in  his 
best  blouse,  leading  the  white  heifer,  and  rubbing 
the  blade  of  his  knife  on  a  stone  to  sharpen  it.  In 
the  "stubble-field,"  he  had  gathered  twelve  sprigs 
of  the  hazel  tree — the  hazel  is  sacred,  since  it 
served  as  a  staff  to  Saint  Joseph  on  his  journey — 
he  had  cut  and  made  twelve  little  crosses,  and 
one  large  one  which  still  bore  a  tuft  of  leaves  on 
the  end.  He  had  entered  the  church,  as  Madame 
Fortier  had  told  him,  and  afterward,  holding  his 
crosses,  which  had  been  blessed  by  the  priest, 
fastened  in  a  light  bundle  upon  his  shoulder,  he 
had  continued  his  way  toward  the  valley  of 
the  Aron  where  he  could  see,  in  the  distance,  the 
chateau  of  Vaucreuse  white  among  the  meadows. 
The  mistress  of  the  chateau  was  always  ready  to 
see  any  one  who  wished  to  speak  to  her.  She  was 
old  Madame  Jacquemin,  who  walked  softly, 
spoke  softly  and  had  more  will  than  ten  men  put 
together.  While  Gilbert  was  passing  by  the  wall 


<;A  NT  ANTHONY'S  SEMiNARV 


50      THE    COMING    HARVEST 

of  the  stable,  before  he  had  even  seen  her  coming, 
she  was  there,  examining  the  animal  which  he 
brought  and  the  face  of  the  drover.  When  she 
had  looked  the  heifer  over  and  had  felt  of  it,  as  it 
stood  motionless  in  the  paved  court  in  front  of 
the  chateau,  she  threw  back  her  masterful  head, 
gave  a  little  gurgle,  which  was  her  way  of  laugh- 
ing, and  said : 

"Why,  you  are  in  blossom  like  a  bush  of  gorse, 
Gilbert  Cloquet!  Sixteen  years  old!  It  is  the 
age  when  boys  begin  to  be  little  men,  and  that  is 
not  saying  much  good  of  them.  Luckily,  my  boy, 
you  are  like  your  mother.  •  Try  to  be  like  her  in 
everything,  for  she  is  an  honest  being,  very  close 
to  God,  industrious  and  tender  to  those  who  are 
not  so." 

Then  she  tapped  the  shoulder  of  the  heifer. 

"Now  lead  her  to  the  stable.    Au  revoir!" 

Gilbert  had  stood  without  making  any  reply, 
for  the  words  had  touched  his  heart  too  deeply 
and  he  watched  the  slender  little  lady  go  away, 
all  in  black,  with  her  clean-cut  face  as  white  as 
ivory. 

Some  years  after  that — he  was  about  twenty 
years  old — when  he  was  at  the  great  fair  of  the 
llth  of  November  at  Saint  Saulge,  the  fair  for 
calves,  which  is  so  important  that  cattle  mer- 
chants are  wont  to  say:  "There  is  only  one  Saint 
Martin  in  France,"  he  had  met  at  the  bend  of  a 
road  the  Marquis  de  Meximieu,  driving  up  in  a 
carriage.  The  Marquis,  then  a  lieutenant  of  dra- 
goons, elegant,  with  a  slender  figure,  and  the 
shoulders  of  an  athlete,  had  tossed  him  his  reins 


THE    COMING    HARVEST      51 

and  said,  with  that  smile  which  adds  so  much  to 
words,  and  which  all  Meximieus  have : 

"Take  my  mare,  Gilbert,  will  you?  I  only 
trust  men  like  you,  who  are  from  home.  I  will 
find  you  again  in  front  of  the  Touchevier  Hotel." 

In  front  of  the  Touchevier  Hotel,  near  the  old 
Gothic  church  all  incrusted  with  low  shops,  Gil- 
bert had  waited,  holding  the  mare.  And  after  an 
hour,  "  Monsieur  Philippe,"  as  they  called  him  at 
Fonteneilles,  had  come  back  and  had  given  a  five- 
franc  piece  to  the  lad  of  La  Vigie — five  francs  with 
a  clasp  of  the  hand  and  a  glance  of  good  humour 
which  were  well  worth  another  hundred  sous. 
Unhappily,  the  Marquis  did  not  live  at  home  and 
occupied  himself  solely  with  collecting  the  rents 
and  with  the  price  of  the  wood;  he  was  an  officer 
in  a  garrison,  far,  very  far  away. 

And  this  had  been  all  the  share  that  Gilbert 
had  had  in  the  life  of  the  "authorities"  of  the 
parish,  and  all  of  the  direct  evidence  he  had  to 
judge  them  by.  Fortunately,  he  had  no  time  for 
reading,  for  not  having  any  guide  nor  any  way  of 
choosing,  he  would  have  run  every  chance  of 
spoiling  his  judgment,  which  was  healthy  and 
sound. 

At  this  time  he  had  already  been  for  a  year  the 
head  man  on  Monsieur  Honore*  Fortier's  farm, 
under  the  orders  of  the  overseer.  His  light  mus- 
tache curled  up  at  the  ends,  his  blue  eyes,  in 
which  there  was  fear  neither  of  men  nor  of  things; 
his  tall  figure ;  his  youth,  which  found  expression 
only  in  his  strength,  in  the  fearlessness  of  his 
walk,  in  the  upright  carriage  of  his  head  on  his 


52      THE    COMING    HARVEST 

shoulders,  in  the  steady  grasp  of  his  two  hands 
when  they  seized  the  handles  of  the  plow,  or  lifted 
at  the  end  of  the  pitchfork  a  double  sheaf  of 
wheat,  like  a  bundle  of  rushes;  his  calm  gayety, 
his  reputation  as  a  steady,  well-paid  young  man, 
who  knew  how  to  save  his  money;  his  skill  as  a 
poacher,  caring  little  for  the  guards,  and  who 
could  offer  a  hare  to  the  prettiest  dancer  the  day 
of  a  fair;  all  this  union  of  energy,  health  and  suc- 
cess pleased  the  maidens  of  Fonteneilles  and  of 
the  neighbouring  villages. 

Already  more  than  one  had  let  him  see  this,  and 
often,  when  he  walked  away  in  the  gloaming,  his 
body  bent  forward,  his  feet  stiffened  by  the  fur- 
rows as  he  followed  the  team  which  drew  and 
lengthened  the  traces:  "Good  evening,"  cried 
they,  "  Monsieur  Gilbert.  Are  you  coming  on 
Sunday  to  Fonteneilles?" 

"That  depends,"  said  he.  On  what?  He  did 
not  say.  And  over  the  thorn-bushes,  the  white 
coifs  watched  the  team  going  away,  the  youth 
absorbed  in  the  work  like  his  oxen. 

Gilbert,  when  the  men  were  talking  around 
him,  kept  silent,  unless  the  conversation  turned 
upon  the  things  of  his  trade,  and  then  he  became 
interested  and  talked  well.  What  he  heard  them 
say  about  religion  and  morals,  wealth  and  politics, 
disturbed  his  untaught  honesty.  He  gave  up, 
little  by  little,  his  old  habits  and  ideas  without 
any  fuss  and  without  boasting  of  the  change  as  the 
others  did,  for  he  was  not  sure  that  he  was  doing 
right  in  changing  them.  He  had  great  good  faith. 
He  yielded  to  slight  considerations  and  to  the  gen- 


THE    COMING    HARVEST      53 

eral  influence,  because  he  had  little  affection  for 
anything  and  his  strength  was  without  guidance. 
This  was  why  he  had  gradually  given  up  entirely 
his  custom  of  going  down  to  Fonteneilles  on  Sun- 
day morning  to  mass.  His  little  old  mother, 
standing  on  the  high  church  steps,  looked  tow- 
ard the  square  and  waited  vainly  each  Sunday 
until  the  last  stroke  of  the  bell.  She  continued  to 
pray,  and  to  grow  old,  and  God  without  doubt 
would  provide  for  her.  Gilbert  did  not  fear  the 
game-keepers,  but  he  did  dread  all  of  the  un- 
known, invisible  apparatus  of  the  state  repre- 
sented by  placards,  conscription,  the  police  and 
the  tax  collector,  who  stopped  once  a  month  at 
the  inn  of  Fonteneilles,  and  by  the  news  of  the 
day  which  reached  even  to  La  Vigie.  The  news- 
papers, bought  irregularly  either  on  fair  days,  or 
from  pedlers,  or  at  the  tobacco  shop,  were  first 
read  by  Monsieur  Fortier,  then  by  Madame  For- 
tier,  and  the  maid-servant,  then  by  the  rest  of 
the  household,  and  finally,  worn  to  tatters,  and 
the  letters  all  blurred  by  the  rubbing  of  hands 
and  tables,  they  were  carried  in  the  evening  into 
the  " lairs"  and  there  read  by  the  servants  by  the 
light  of  round  lanterns.  The  servants  read  espe- 
cially the  serial  stories  because  of  the  romance 
in  them  and  the  accounts  of  local  events.  The  rest 
of  the  paper  was  merely  glanced  at,  and  it  left  in 
the  minds  of  the  men  only  a  kind  of  ardent  haze, 
a  feeling  of  dissatisfaction  and  a  desire  for  change. 
One  single  idea  remained  in  the  unnourished  mind 
of  Gilbert :  the  idea  of  justice.  He  applied  it  only 
to  the  very  limited  world  which  his  eyes  could 


54      THE    COMING    HARVEST 

see;  but,  in  his  relations  with  other  men,  in  his 
daily  conduct,  and  in  his  manner  of  judging  others, 
he  showed  a  kind  of  passion  for  it.  Some  of  his 
ancestors  must  have  without  doubt  loved  it;  it 
was  in  his  blood,  this  thirst  for  justice,  which  at 
times  exalted  itself  into  a  spirit  of  revolt.  If  he 
saw  one  of  his  companions  plowing  carelessly,  he 
grew  red  with  anger,  and  led  back  the  oxen  into 
the  furrow  himself.  If  he  heard  any  day-labourer 
at  La  Vigie,  or  the  men  at  Fonteneilles,  who  were 
all  wood-cutters  in  the  winter  months,  boast  of 
having  cheated  in  the  piling  up  of  the  wood — and 
of  course,  there  were  many  frauds  in  the  way  of  bad 
stacking  of  the  fire-wood,  reserved  young  trees 
from  which  the  workmen  effaced  the  red  marks, 
wood  which  they  did  not  count,  cords  of  wood 
stuffed  with  chips,  bundles  of  bark  filled  out  by 
parings  of  the  trees  which  had  been  cut  in  a  bun- 
gling way — when  he  heard  these  boasts  he  would 
say  boldly:  "Who  ever  did  that  is  a  bad  work- 
man." And  neither  sneers,  nor  grumblings,  nor 
abuse,  made  him  change  his  opinion.  As  to  the 
threats,  those  he  never  heard — they  were  spoken 
too  low — for  he  had  fists  of  which  men  were  afraid, 
and  a  way  of  looking  one  in  the  face  which  showed 
he  would  follow  up  any  provocation. 

This  rude  and  combative  disposition  more  than 
once  brought  him  into  conflict  with  his  master, 
who  gave  abrupt  orders  and  allowed  no  discus- 
sion. The  other  labourers,  who  were  younger  than 
he  was,  did  not  lose  the  chance  at  these  times  to 
suggest:  "Leave,  Gilbert,  go  settle  your  account 
and  begone!"  and  three  times  at  least  he  had 


THE    COMING    HARVEST      55 

said:  "I  will  leave."  But  each  time  the  hidden 
and  deep  love  which  he  felt  for  La  Vigie,  and  also 
the  thought  that  his  master,  though  arbitrary,  was 
generally  just,  had  kept  him  at  the  farm.  Mon- 
sieur Honore  Fortier,  even  if  he  did  not  express  it, 
nevertheless  showed  at  every  opportunity,  the 
confidence  which  he  felt  in  the  experience  and  the 
integrity  of  his  head  man.  When  he  sent  cattle 
to  Paris  he  had  them  taken  by  the  well-known 
driver,  Father  Toutpetit,  who,  twice  a  week,  from 
June  to  the  end  of  November,  took  to  Villette 
wagon  loads  of  ca^le,  bringing  back  the  price  in 
small  linen  sacks  sealed  with  red  wax,  to  the 
cattle  raisers.  But  when  the  buyer  demanded 
that  the  cattle  be  delivered  in  some  other  part  of 
France,  and  there  was  no  driver  available,  Mon- 
sieur Fortier  said,  knowing  that  it  pleased  Gil- 
bert: "I  have  some  one  who  will  take  them."  In 
this  way  Gilbert-  Cloquet  made  trips  to  Lyon,  to 
Belfort,  to  Nancy  and  to  many  other  places. 
The  young  man  gained  from  this  more  initiative 
than  his  comrades  and  more  authority  and  had 
some  idea  of  the  variety  of  the  world. 

At  the  age  of  twenty-four — as  the  son  of  a 
widow,  he  was  exempt  from  military  service — 
Gilbert  passed  already  for  a  rich  man.  As  he 
made  good  wages,  five  hundred  francs  a  year  ever 
since  he  was  seventeen,  and  spent  nothing,  and 
had  also  inherited  a  small  sum  at  the  death  of  an 
uncle,  an  old  farm  hand  and  day-labourer  at 
Crux-la- Ville,  he  had  the  right  to  choose  from 
among  the  best  matches  of  the  countryside. 
There  was  great  astonishment  when  it  was  learned 


56      THE    COMING    HARVEST 

that  Gilbert  was  " keeping  company"  with  the 
daughter  of  a  small  shop-keeper  of  Fonteneilles, 
a  dealer  in  barley  sugar  and  hardware,  cloth  and 
white  earthen  ware.  She  was  not  rich;  her 
father  was  a  drunkard,  and  everybody  knew  that 
she  had  more  taste  for  dress  than  for  work.  Still, 
when  she  passed  through  the  square.,  on  Sunday, 
dressed  like  a  lady,  her  hair  turned  back,  her  bril- 
liant eyes  with  shadows  under  them  and  her  lips 
open,  showing  her  white  teeth,  all  the  young  men 
of  the  town  asked  laughingly:  "Is  it  for  you, 
Baptiste?  Is  it  for  you,  Jean?  Is  it  for  you, 
Franc. ois?"  One  day  Gilbert,  who  made  few  jokes 
and  contented  himself  with  laughing,  biting  his 
blond  mustache,  rose  in  the  middle  of  the  wine 
shop  where  some  thirty  men  were  drinking,  and 
said:  "It  is  for  me!"  And  immediately  he 
crossed  the  road  and  greeted  the  pretty  girl,  and 
they  saw  them  both  walk  off ' '  talking."  His  moth- 
er was  troubled  when  she  learned  that  her  Gilbert 
had  chosen  "one  who  was  not  his  equal."  She 
tried  to  struggle;  but  she  had  become  so  old  that 
she  could  only  say  no  at  first  so  as  to  say  yes 
afterward  and  to  weep  in  secret. 

She  would  have  liked  to  have  had  the  wedding 
in  the  month  of  May,  because  she  was  devoted  to 
the  Virgin.  But  the  parents  of  the  bride  inter- 
fered! "Girls  who  marry  in  May,"  they  said, 
"have  too  many  children!"  So  it  was  in  the  be- 
ginning of  June,  on  a  brilliant  day  that  was  good 
for  the  harvest,  that  Gilbert  Cloquet  led  to  church 
the  beautiful  Adele  Mirette,  daughter  of  the 
grocer  of  Fonteneilles.  All  the  village  stood  at 


THE    COMING    HARVEST      57 

the  doors  to  see  the  newly  wedded  couple,  the 
handsomest  of  the  year,  with  their  wedding  train, 
which  stretched  along  the  road  up  the  hill.  A 
couple  of  very  small  children  led  the  procession, 
to  chase  away  misfortune  from  the  bridal  pair, 
then  came  the  violin  players,  then  Gilbert,  su- 
perb, giving  his  arm  to  his  mother,  who  tried, 
without  success,  to  smile.  The  poor  people,  ac- 
cording to  custom,  had  arranged  along  the  route 
of  the  bridal  party  chairs  covered  with  white 
linen  and  decorated  with  bouquets.  And  every 
body  remarked  that  Mere  Cloquet,  the  poor  old 
woman  who  had  only  just  enough  to  live  upon, 
placed  a  piece  of  silver  on  each  one  of  these  chairs 
of  the  poor.  Her  heart  under  her  forced  smile 
was  full  of  sorrow. 

Mere  Cloquet  could  not  long  bear  this  new 
trouble  added  to  so  many  others.  Less  than  two 
months  after  the  marriage,  she  died,  feeling  sure 
that  her  son  would  be  unhappy  in  his  home. 
In  this  she  was  partly  wrong.  The  coquettish 
young  girl  made  a  steady  wife,  whom  no  one  talked 
about.  She  had  loved  pretty  clothes  especially  as 
a  means  of  making  herself  loved.  Her  husband 
would  not  have  tolerated  a  rival.  Possibly,  too,  it 
was  a  spirit  of  precaution  as  much  as  economy, 
which  caused  him  in  renting  a  house,  to  choose 
the  hamlet  of  Pas-du-Loup  situated  in  the  open 
woods  a  few  hundred  yards  from  the  village.  He 
continued  to  work  as  a  servant  at  La  Vigie  but 
he  left  the  barn  where  he  had  slept  in  the  straw 
for  thirteen  years  and  came  to  live  in  the  last 
one  of  the  houses  of  the  hamlet,  the  one  set  far- 


58      THE    COMING    HARVEST 

thest  back  in  the  forest,  to  the  left.  Every  morn- 
ing at  daybreak  he  walked  up  to  La  Vigie;  at 
dusk,  he  came  back  again.  No  one  could  tell 
whether  he  was  happy  or  unhappy.  People  only 
noticed  that  he  often  returned  very  late  from  the 
farm,  and  then,  after  a  while,  that  he  had  bought, 
or  had  given  to  him,  no  one  knew  which,  a  sheep 
dog  named  Labri  with  a  smooth  coat  and  eyes 
like  burning  coals,  who  never  left  him.  "He  tells 
his  secrets  to  the  dog,"  whispered  the  neighbours. 
The  truth  is  that  his  wife  was  no  housekeeper. 
Her  health  was  delicate,  and  that  served,  for  a 
long  time,  as  excuse  when  the  soup  was  not  ready, 
and  when  her  husband  found  the  house  in  dis- 
order, the  linen  badly  arranged  in  the  clothes- 
press  and  his  working  clothes  still  unmended 
after  two  or  three  days.  He  loved  her,  with  all 
the  strength  of  his  unspoilt  youth,  and  she  also 
loved  him  in  her  way.  She  was  proud  to  show 
herself,  on  Sunday,  by  the  side  of  the  handsomest 
man  of  the  country  and  to  go  with  him  to  wed- 
dings, assemblies,  and  sometimes  to  fairs  when 
Monsieur  Fortier  sent  him  there.  She  always  kept 
the  tastes  acquired  in  her  early  childhood,  which 
had  been  passed  in  a  village  shop,  selling  and  gos- 
siping. Neither  the  Jiving  in  the  forest  nor  the 
housework  pleased  her,  and  the  fowls  in  her  poul- 
try yard  did  not  have  the  well-fed  comb,  the  shin- 
ing feathers  and  full  crop  of  those  of  her  neighbour, 
Mere  Justamond.  "What  can  you  expect?" 
she  would  always  say  to  Gilbert  when  he  com- 
plained. "I  have  no  heart  for  anything  because 
you  are  never  here.  Even  if  you  worked  out  by  the 


THE    COMING    HARVEST      59 

day,  as  nearly  all  of  the  married  men  of  your  age 
do,  I  should  have  some  pleasure  in  working  with 
you  in  the  garden  during  the  slack  season  and  in 
keeping  your  house  in  order;  but  Monsieur  Hon- 
ore  Fortier  does  not  leave  you  even  an  hour  for 
yourself;  he  even  takes  you  away  often  on  Sun- 
days, because  he  says  that  he  can  trust  you  to 
look  after  La  Vigie!  Do  you  think  that  it  is 
very  amusing  for  me?  What  is  the  good  of  your 
money?"  Gilbert  pretended  not  to  hear  her;  he 
went  up  to  La  Vigie,  with  his  dog  with  the  eyes  like 
burning  coals.  Adele  Cloquet  was  not  bad.  She 
was  merely  what  she  had  been  made :  a  girl  who 
did  not  understand  her  condition  in  life.  On  the 
other  hand,  she  did  believe  all  the  superstitious 
stories  of  the  neighbourhood.  Not  for  all  the 
wealth  of  the  Marquis  would  she  have  been  seen 
sewing  between  Christmas  and  New  Year's  Day, 
nor  would  she  have  washed  on  a  " Lady's  Day," 
she  who  often  worked  on  Sunday.  Omens  and 
sorcerers  made  her  afraid,  and,  when  she  met 
Grollier,  she  smiled  at  him,  secretly  crossing  her- 
self, so  as  to  combat  the  evil  eye  of  the  tramp  in 
two  ways. 

Water  wears  away  the  stone  and  the  wind  gnaws 
it.  The  complaints  of  Adele  wore  down  slowly, 
though  without  appearing  to  do  so,  the  man's  will. 
He  knew  very  well  that  he  would  make  a  mistake 
if  he  left  the  farm  where  he  had  worked  for  so  long, 
where  every  sod  had  been  trodden  by  his  sabots 
and  turned  over  by  his  hands.  The  words  of  the 
woman  he  loved  and  whom  he  silently  pitied,  the 
talk  of  men  of  the  new  generation  who  were  be- 


60     THE    COMING    HARVEST 

ginning  to  raise  their  voices  in  the  inns,  changed 
the  workman's  heart.  In  1883,  about  the  middle 
of  the  hay-making,  which  took  place  early,  Gil- 
bert had  a  dispute  with  his  master.  He  said,  as  he 
passed  by  an  old  strip  of  pasture  land  which  had 
been  turned  into  a  meadow  and  was  called  the 
"chaume  basse:" 

"You  want  me  to  cut  the  hay  here,  master;  it 
is  not  ripe  yet." 

"Yes  it  is.  I  know  what  I  am  talking  about, 
Gilbert,  and  it  is  I  who  command  here." 

"I,  too.  know  what  I  am  talking  about,  and  I 
will  not  cut  hay  which  is  not  ripe.  That  disgusts 
me!" 

Monsieur  Honore"  Fortier  probably  had  never 
before  been  so  patient;  he  did  not  reply,  and  let 
Gilbert  go  on,  with  three  of  the  young  labourers 
who  had  overheard,  to  a  meadow  higher  up,  where 
the  seed  at  the  end  of  the  thick  grass  was  beaded 
with  gray  dew.  But  in  the  evening,  as  he  was 
coming  back  along  the  path,  stretching  his  legs, 
he  was  rejoined  by  Gilbert  Cloquet  who  was  walk- 
ing rapidly  with  his  scythe  on  his  shoulder. 

"You  are  warm,  it  seems  to  me,  Gilbert?" 

"And  something  more  than  that." 

"That  is?" 

"That  I  am  going  to  leave  La  Vigie  at  Saint 
John's  Day."  Monsieur  Honore*  Fortier  stopped 
short.  His  strong,  smooth-shaven  face,  sharpened 
by  sudden  anger,  grew  ten  years  older. 

"This  is-  the  fourth  time  that  you  have  said  that, 
Gilbert,  and  that  is  enough.  Why  are  you  leav- 
ing?" 


THE    COMING    HARVEST      61 

"To  be  my  own  master." 

"Be  your  own  master,  then!  I  will  be  so  no 
longer!  Die  of  hunger  if  that  suits  you!  But  re- 
member well  what  I  am  saying  to  you!  Neither 
at  the  present  time,  nor  when  you  are  old,  will  I 
ever  take  you  back  again." 

"I  shall  never  come  back,  Monsieur  Fortier." 

"Not  if  you  should  go  down  on  your  knees, 
there  on  the  ground !  Come  in  to  La  Vigie,  I  will 
settle  your  account  now.  Not  at  Saint  John's 
Day.  Immediately!" 

Gilbert  went  on  ahead  of  his  master,  and  while 
he  was  walking  away,  taking  short  steps  to  show- 
that  he  was  not  afraid,  he  heard  rolling  over  the 
furrows  after  him: 

"Nineteen  years  of  friendship!  Nineteen  years 
of  good  pay !  You  will  regret  your  master,  Gilbert 
Cloquet!" 

A  little  farther  on  he  heard  again: 

"You  are  doing  me  an  injury,  you  are  unjust!" 

Then  Gilbert,  furious,  turned  his  head. 

"I  forbid  you  to  say  that!"  he  cried.  "I  am 
doing  what  I  have  a  right  to  do.  I  am  not  doing 
you  any  injury!  You  will  replace  me!" 

But  the  voice  from  below  replied: 

"Good  servants  cannot  be  replaced  every  day 
in  the  week.  Yes,  you  are  doing  me  a  great 
wrong,  and  because  you  are  going  away  without 
any  reason  you  are  behaving  unjustly!" 

The  words  were  lost  over  the  furrows  and  the 
men  said  no  more  to  each  other. 

That  evening  for  the  last  time  Gilbert  followed 
the  path  leading  from  the  farm  to  the  village.  His 


62     THE    COMING    HARVEST 

heart  beat  as  he  approached  Pas-du-Loup.  A  tor- 
por lay  over  all  the  land  after  the  heat  of  the  day. 
Even  the  aspen  leaves  were  at  rest.  The  man 
went  down  with  glad  pride,  regretting  nothing  and 
he  saluted  the  invisible  house,  hidden  by  the  tall 
forest  trees.  "I  shall  be  able  to  watch  my  little 
girl  grow  up,"  he  said.  A  little  daughter  had  been 
born  to  him  four  years  before.  He  loved  her  pas- 
sionately, but  during  the  week  he  saw  her  only  in 
her  sleep,  for  he  went  to  his  work  too  early  and 
returned  too  late  to  find  little  Marie's  eyes  still 
open.  She  had  been  one  of  the  reasons  for  the 
resolution  which  he  had  just  taken,  and  the  only 
one  which  he  acknowledged  to  himself.  When  he 
reached  the  cottage  the  little  one  was  playing  on 
the  door  step.  She  turned  her  back.  Her  father 
lifted  her  up,  startled,  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her 
noisily. 

"It  is  a  day-labourer,  little  Marie,  who  is  kiss- 
ing you!  You  will  get  to  know  me  now !" 

A  new  era  began  then  for  Gilbert  Cloquet.  He 
was  thirty  years  old.  His  strength  was  known, 
and  so  was  his  honesty  as  a  workman;  people 
wanted  him  at  once  on  the  farms  and  in  the  for- 
ests. He  had  his  work  engaged  for  more  days 
than  any  one  of  his  many  companions  who  hired 
themselves  out.  The  steward  of  the  Marquis  de 
Meximieu  engaged  him  for  the  hay-making; 
others  hired  him  for  the  harvest.  He  was  "his 
own  master";  at  least,  he  thought  he  was,  and 
he  worked  hard,  but  more  joyously  than  at  La 
Vigie.  The  worst  part  of  this  trade  of  working 
out  by  the  day  or  by  the  week  was  not  the  per- 


THE    COMING    HARVEST      63 

petual  change  of  work  and  of  place — Gilbert  liked 
the  chance  of  comparing  in  this  way  the  different 
people  and  the  different  parts  of  the  country — 
but  it  was  the  slack  seasons  and  very  soon  it  was 
also  the  low  wages  that  were  paid.  From  the  15th 
of  November  to  the  middle  of  March,  good  work- 
man as  he  was,  there  were  easily  fifty  days  when 
he  could  only  get  work  in  the  woods.  In  April, 
people  on  the  farms  hired  him  to  help  in  the 
Spring  work,  and  in  the  breaking  up  of  the  clods, 
but  it  was  a  bad  month.  In  May  he  returned  to 
the  forest  with  his  wife,  whenever  she  was  willing 
to  follow  him,  for  the  cutting  and  the  barking 
of  the  young  oak  trees;  then  came  the  busy 
weeks  of  the  harvest — hay-making  in  June,  wheat 
and  oats  in  July;  then  a  lull  bringing  days  of  en- 
forced rest;  and  by  looking  around  and  offering 
himself  here  and  there  to  dig  potatoes  and  for 
the  Autumn  sowings,  he  managed  to  get  through 
to  All  Saints'  Day,  the  season  when  he  buried 
himself  again  with  his  comrades  in  the  forest. 
A  hard  season,  but  one  in  which  he  lived  with 
many  companions,  and  which  he  loved. 

He  often  had  to  go  three  or  four  miles  in  the 
morning  and  again  in  the  evening,  to  reach  the 
wood  yard  and  to  return  from  it.  When  her  father 
returned  home,  always  after  dark — for  the  work 
was  finished  about  five  o'clock,  a  little  before  sun- 
set— the  child  would  say : 
"You  love  the  woods  too  much,  papa!" 
He  would  lift  her  up  at  arm's  length  and  hold 
her  turned  toward  the  flame  of  the  hearth  so  that 
he  could  see  the  joy  of  youth  in  the  depths  of  the 


64     THE    COMING    HARVEST 

child's  almond-shaped  eyes,  so  full  of  life  and  of 
the  tone  of  the  beech  trees  in  autumn,  and  he 
would  answer  laughing: 

"I  work  hard,  my  little  Marie,  so  that  neither 
of  you  need  work!" 

In  the  single  room  which  filled  the  whole  space 
between  the  four  walls  of  the  house — two  beds  in 
the  back,  a  great  chimney-place  on  the  right  wall, 
a  large  wardrobe  opposite  reaching  up  to  the 
joists,  a  door  and  a  window  looking  out  upon  the 
forest  road,  a  few  household  utensils  hung  from 
nails,  a  wooden  box  in  which  the  food  was  kept, 
a  cask  of  wine  wedged  between  two  split  logs — he 
never  remained  for  long.  His  work  took  him  far 
away,  and  so  did  that  life  among  other  men,  which 
becomes  a  habit,  a  school,  and  in  a  short  while  a 
tyranny. 

The  men  talked  together  on  their  way  to  work 
through  the  lines  of  trees  and  when  returning  in 
the  evening  with  their  staffs  on  their  shoulders, 
and  also  when  at  mid-day  all  the  wood-cutters  of 
the  clearing  collected  together  in  groups  in  the 
shelter  of  the  corded  firewood,  and  opened  their 
lunch  bags.  Gilbert,  who  had  the  prestige  of  his 
size  and  the  reputation  of  an  independent  char- 
acter, was  listened  to  with  attention.  They  often 
took  him  for  umpire  in  the  disputes  between  the 
workmen  and  the  sworn  clerks  who  watched  them 
in  behalf  of  the  wood  merchants.  He  complained 
aloud — the  others  merely  grumbled  in  undertones 
— that  the  pay  was  not  enough.  A  franc  and  a 
half  a  day  was  too  little,  it  was  unjust.  And  this 
also  gave  him  an  ascendency  over  his  comrades. 


THE    COMING    HARVEST      65 

He  did  not  earn  any  more  than  at  Monsieur  For- 
tier's,  but  the  freedom  of  his  life  and  the  variety 
of  the  work  took  away  any  regret  for  the  past 
from  this  tall  wood-cutter,  who  felt  that  his  youth 
gave  him  a  sure  future  and  who  exercised  a  pow- 
erful influence  over  his  equals. 

The  health  of  his  wife,  never  good,  grew  rapidly 
worse.  The  poor  woman,  consumed  by  an  insidi- 
ous disease,  grew  as  pale  and  thin  as  a  wax  taper. 
She  lost  her  hair  and  her  teeth,  which  had  made 
her  smile  brilliant,  and  even  her  love  for  dress. 
Little  Marie,  on  the  contrary,  prettier  even  than 
her  mother  had  been,  slender,  blonde,  fresh,  with 
eyes  that  flashed  readily  with  anger  but  were  fasci- 
nating when  her  mood  was  gentle,  grew  up  like  an 
oak  on  the  edge  of  the  forest.  Her  father  knew 
of  nothing  that  was  as  beautiful.  He  who  was  so 
rough  with  men  was  weakness  itself  before  her. 
He  spoiled  her,  and  he  said  to  excuse  himself: 

"I  am  too  much  away  to  make  her  weep  when 
I  do  see  her.  You,  the  mother,  have  plenty  of 
time  to  make  yourself  loved!  But  I  have  only 
supper  time." 

When  she  was  ten  years  old  she  was  confirmed 
with  the  other  children  of  her  age.  It  was  a  great 
fete,  and  a  great  expense  for  the  Cloquets.  Gil- 
bert wanted  Marie  to  be  the  best-dressed  child  in 
the  village,  and  his  wife  had  the  work  done  by  the 
seamstresses  of  Corbigny. 

The  morning  of  the  f&te,  at  the  first  sound  which 
rang  out  from  the  steeple  of  Fonteneilles  over 
the  forest,  the  four  neighbours  of  the  Cloquets,  the 
Justamonds,  Pere  Dixneuf,  the  Lappes,  and  the 


66     THE    COMING    HARVEST 

Ravoux,  with  their  wives  and  their  children,  went 
out  on  the  road  to  look  at  Marie  in  her  white  dress. 
They  all  said,  "Isn't  she  a  dear,"  but  only  Mere 
Justamond  embraced  her  with  the  emotion  which 
the  understanding  of  religion  gives.  She  mur- 
mured something  in  the  ear  of  the  child,  who  re- 
plied with  a  discreet  yes.  Marie's  whole  attention 
was  occupied  with  holding  up  her  veil  and  her 
gown,  and  in  walking  very  straight,  so  as  not  to 
put  her  white  shoes  in  the  ruts.  Every  ten  steps 
her  mother  admonished  her:  " Don't  get  your- 
self dirty,  Marie!"  It  had  rained  during  the  night 
and  a  few  large,  left-over  drops  fell  on  her  veil  and 
on  her  hair  which  had  been  so  carefully  waved. 
Marie  walked  in  front  between  the  cliff-like  rows 
of  trees  and  her  father  and  mother  followed,  one 
on  the  right  and  the  other  on  the  left,  in  their 
Sunday  clothes.  Gilbert  had  even  put  on  his  top 
hat  which  he  wore  only  on  the  most  formal  occa- 
sions. Any  one  would  have  thought  that  they 
were  true  Christians,  who  had  seen  them  a  little 
later  in  the  church,  silent,  serious,  even  affected 
and  looking  often  at  the  little  one  behind  her  ta- 
per, in  the  second  place  of  the  first  row;  but  their 
emotion  was  entirely  paternal,  maternal,  and  hu- 
man, like  that  felt  by  parents  who  are  taking  their 
daughter  to  her  first  ball.  After  the  mass,  and 
when  the  cure",  who  was  a  courteous  and  timid  old 
man,  conquered  by  inertia  through  his  despair  of 
conquering  it,  had  returned  to  the  parsonage,  there 
in  the  sandy  path,  he  found  the  Cloquet  family  who 
had  come  to  pay  their  respects  and  to  give  him  the 
cakes  ordered  from  the  local  baker.  The  brioches 


THE    COMING    HARVEST      67 

seemed  so  large  to  him  that  he  rejoiced  at  first, 
regarding  them  as  a  proof  of  devotion.  He  thanked 
them. 

" Monsieur  le  Cure,"  said  Cloquet,  caressing  his 
blond  beard,  "we  are  doing  this  because  you  have 
never  given  us  anything  to  complain  of,  and  I 
wanted  to  show  you  we  appreciate  it.  It  is  not 
my  custom  to  be  indebted  to  any  one  who  is  our 
friend." 

"I  am  not  as  much  your  friend  as  I  would 
wish,  Gilbert  Cloquet,  but  your  intentions  are 
good,  all  the  same.  Thank  you!" 

"Good-by,  Monsieur  le  Cure." 

"  Bring  the  child  to  vespers  at  half-past  two, 
punctually."  And  that  was  all.  The  mother  and 
daughter  returned  at  half-past  two.  They  were 
red  in  the  face.  They  had  eaten  too  much.  Clo- 
quet himself  had  begun  to  sharpen  his  scythe,  for 
the  hay-making  season  had  come,  and  the  evening 
before  the  guard  from  the  chateau  of  Fonteneilles 
had  engaged  the  reapers. 

Two  years  later  his  wife  died.  His  daughter 
was  not  yet  twelve  years  old.  This  was  a  great 
grief  to  Cloquet  and  the  cause  of  much  anxiety. 
Poor  and  disorderly  a  housekeeper  as  his  wife  had 
been,  she  was  better  than  her  daughter.  "My 
little  girl  is  not  old  enough  to  do  such  hard  work," 
she  had  always  said,  and  the  child  had  not  learned 
even  the  little  cooking  and  sewing  that  her 
mother  could  have  taught  her.  After  the  mother's 
death,  the  father  stayed  at  home  with  Marie  for 
eight  days,  without  doing  anything,  as  the  cus- 
tom is,  between  the  burial  service  and  the  mass 


68     THE    COMING    HARVEST 

for  the  dead,  and  he  tried  to  understand  Marie,  to 
advise  her,  to  show  her  how  to  do  some  work.  The 
girl  was  strong  enough  to  do  the  house-work,  if  she 
had  been  willing  to  try.  She  was  so  tall  and  so 
entirely  a  woman  in  figure  and  manners  that  she 
looked  fourteen,  and  some  said  even  sixteen  years 
old.  He  did  not.  succeed  at  all.  He  was  opposed 
by  caresses,  then  by  refusals,  and  finally,  when  he 
persisted,  by  a  sulky  and  morose  anger  as  un- 
yielding as  ingratitude.  Near  the  end  of  the 
eighth  day  Cloquet,  who  was  engaged  in  removing 
the  knots  of  cr£pe  which  he  had  fastened,  in  ac- 
cordance with  the  custom,  to  the  straw  of  his 
hives,  saw  approaching  fat  Mere  Justamond, 
his  neighbour. 

"Pere  Cloquet,"  she  said,  "I  already  have  five 
children  to  take  care  of,  and  your  daughter  shall 
make  the  sixth.  Do  not  worry  about  her." 

And  Marie  went  on  playing  with  the  little 
Justamonds,  and  idling  her  time  away  until  she 
should  be  old  enough  to  be  apprenticed.  She 
wanted  to  be  a  seamstress  so  that  she  might  leave 
the  forest  and  see  the  world. 

Gilbert  was  now  worse  taken  care  of,  more  iso- 
lated and  more  unhappy  in  his  home  even  than 
before.  He  fell  back  entirely  on  his  companions, 
many  of  them  day-labourers  the  year  round  whom 
he  met  on  the  farms,  and  others  who  were  wagon- 
ers, masons,  small  proprietors,  pensioners,  and 
mechanics,  who  worked  as  wood-cutters  during  the 
winter  season  or  as  strippers  when  the  sap  began 
to  rise.  The  obscure  feeling  of  sympathy  which 
the  practice  of  a  trade  develops,  the  need  of  being 


THE    COMING    HARVEST      69 

with  a  number  of  people  who  agree  together  and 
who  help  each  other,  made  him  often  hire  himself 
out  on  distant  farms,  and  return  home  late  be- 
cause he  would  go  off  for  a  drink  among  friends, 
and  sometimes  even  sleep  away  from  home.  His 
clothes  were  in  bad  condition,  his  beard  grew 
long  and  the  dogs  barked  at  him  when  he  ap- 
peared again  at  the  hamlet.  The  neighbours  said: 
" Gilbert  Cloquet  is  getting  wild."  But  it  was 
not  that.  He  was  really  living  more  fully,  with  a 
more  earnest,  eager,  generous,  and  restless  life;  he 
wras  living  for  others  and  with  others  of  his  trade, 
in  the  reviving  union.  His  generous  nature  was 
filled  with  illusions,  with  blended  angers  and  joys. 
In  1891  and  in  the  two  following  years,  the  wood- 
cutters of  Nievre  leagued  themselves  together 
to  obtain  an  increase  of  their  insufficient  wages. 
In  the  woods,  at  the  rest  hour,  in  the  drinking- 
places,  and  on  Sundays,  and  in  the  farms  where 
machines  were  replacing  the  rollers  and  the  flails, 
the  men  gathered  in  large  groups  and  the  tillers 
of  the  soil  discussed  the  affairs  of  their  trade. 
Words  that  had  not  been  heard  for  more  than  a 
century  were  spoken  under  the  high  forest  trees  or 
between  the  hedges.  Some  very  old  trees  had 
shuddered  once  before  at  similar  utterances.  You 
could  hear  such  sentences  as:  "The  common  in- 
terests of  the  workmen!  No  more  isolation,  in- 
dividuals are  weak!  Let  us  combine  to  uphold 
our  rights!  Let  us  form  a  fund  and  each  one 
sacrifice  a  part  of  his  wages."  Complaints  were 
plentiful,  and  one  stirred  up  another!  "We  can 
not  live!  The  merchants  exploit  us!  No  more 


70     THE    COMING    HARVEST 

famine  wages!  Is  a  salary  of  one  franc  twenty 
to  one  franc  fifty  enough?  And  how  about  our 
wives?  And  our  children?  And  the  days  when 
there  is  no  work?"  Life,  children,  home,  these 
great  primitive  words  filled  the  hearts  of  the  men, 
and  after  they  had  talked  of  poverty,  they  uttered 
threats  and  defiance  against  the  speculators,  those 
who  were  at  Nevers,  in  the  small  villages,  or  in  the 
country,  in  houses  built  from  the  wood  of  the 
felled  forests.  Other  things  were  talked  about 
also ;  the  dreams  in  which  they  did  not  all  believe 
equally,  but  which  were  nevertheless  in  every 
one's  blood,  for  they  were  in  the  air  they  breathed, 
in  the  smell  of  the  young  buds  and  the  new  grass. 
"The  future  belongs  to  the  people,"  they  said. 
"Democracy  is  going  to  create  a  new  world.  The 
right  to  bread,  the  right  to  rest,  the  right  to  di- 
vision." The  whole  forest  was  in  a  state  of  agi- 
tation that  year.  The  underwood  always  being 
cut  down  murmured  beneath  the  oaks:  "We, 
too,  have  a  right  to  the  sea-breeze  like  the  tall 
trees." 

Gilbert  Cloquet,  with  his  passion  for  justice, 
was  one  of  the  first  to  demand  a  union.  He  spoke 
without  skill,  with  controlled  force,  and,  in 
the  beginning,  with  a  slight  stammering  which 
gave  a  quality  of  unexpectedness  to  his  phrases. 
But  he  knew  well  the  conditions  throughout  that 
region  and  he  had  the  reputation  of  authority 
among  his  comrades.  He  traveled  through  the 
whole  department  to  bring  about  an  understand- 
ing with  the  neighbouring  unions.  He  drew  up 
the  regulations.  During  months  he  lived,  as  he 


THE    COMING    HARVEST      71 

said  with  pride,  "for  the  cause  of  universal  jus- 
tice." The  instructor  of  Fonteneilles  declared 
repeatedly:  "This  Cloquet  must  have  had  ances- 
tors among  the  Communists  of  the  Nivernais." 
And  he  would  have  liked  to  talk  about  those 
peasant  corporations  preserved  by  the  ancient 
common  law,  and  which,  in  the  sixteenth  century, 
grouped  the  families  of  labourers  and  of  wood- 
cutters together,  working  under  one  head,  and 
inheriting  among  themselves. 

Gilbert  even  had  his  moment  of  fame. 

He  was  present  at  the  reunion  of  the  wood- 
cutters and  workmen,  convened  by  the  prefect  at 
Nevers,  the  4th  of  February,  1893,  where  the  wood- 
cutters' unions  of  Chantenay-Saint-Imbert,  Saint- 
Pierre-le-Moutier,  Neuville,  Fleury,  Decize,  Seme- 
lay,  Saint-Benin-d' Azy,  Fermete,  Molay,  and  others 
were  represented.  When  the  wood-cutters  were 
asked  to  state  their  claims,  several  voices  cried 
out :  ' ' Cloquet !  Cloquet ! "  "Is  Monsieur  Cloquet 
here?"  said  the  prefect.  "Cloquet,  day-labourer, 
present,"  replied  Gilbert.  And  that  was  his  first 
success.  Then  the  tall  wood-cutter  standing,  un- 
embarrassed, supported  by  the  living  passion  that 
was  in  all  hearts  and  all  eyes,  went  on : 

"We  want. to  live;  it  is  not  wealth  we  ask  for; 
it  is  bread,  and,  if  we  give  up  butter,  to  have  a 
bit  of  ribbon  for  our  daughters.  I  have  one  my- 
self who  is  growing  up.  We  demand  that  the 
merchants  accept  the  new  tariff;  that  is  one 
thing.  And  then  that  a  cord  of  firewood  should 
not  be  more  than  ninety  inches  high.  If  the  mer- 
chants agree  to  that,  we  will  all  return  to  the 


72     THE    COMING    HARVEST 

woods;  if  not,  no.  We  must  have  justice  which 
has  been  driven  from  the  forest." 

They  applauded  him  for  the  power  of  his  voice, 
for  his  energy,  his  size,  and  his  fearlessness.  It  was 
a  triumph.  Chanting  the  Marseillaise,  his  com- 
rades brought  him  back  to  his  house  at  Pas-du- 
Loup  where  Marie,  tall  and  beautiful,  was  stand- 
ing, pale,  on  the  threshold,  to  which  she  had  run 
on  hearing  the  singing.  One  of  the  wood-cutters 
who  was  a  young  man,  went  up  to  her  and  said : 

"Pere  Cloquet  has  spoken  well.  Vive  Marie 
Cloquet !  Vive  Pere  Cloquet ! " 

It  was  the  second  time  that  he  had  been  called 
"Pere  Cloquet."  He  did  not  pay  much  atten- 
tion, for  the  wine  and  the  glory  had  excited  him. 
He  only  said: 

"Lureux,  just  because  you  are  young,  you  need 
not  make  fun  of  me.  I  have  done  what  I  ought. 
I  hope  that  we  are  going  to  succeed.  Kiss  me, 
Marie,  and  give  a  glass  of  wine  to  the  friends." 

And  Marie  kissed  him,  his  Marie,  with  her  eyes 
like  those  of  a  fawn,  long,  ardent  and  golden. 

For  a  long  time  after  the  men  had  finished 
drinking  and  had  disappeared  down  the  forest 
paths,  the  father  and  daughter  remained  upon  the 
threshold  of  the  door,  listening  to  the  voices  sing- 
ing in  chorus,  and  to  cries  growing  fainter  and 
fainter,  of  "Vive  comrade  Cloquet!" 

The  glory  was  brief.  Even  in  the  first  strikes, 
Gilbert  had  to  reprove  the  violence  of  some  of  the 
young  men.  One  evening,  after  a  discussion  of  the 
tariff  with  Monsieur  Thomas,  the  wholesale  wood- 
dealer,  when  several  of  the  wood-cutters  had  pro- 


THE    COMING    HARVEST      73 

posed  that  they  go  and  sack  the  house  of  the 
" sweater,"  he  had  taken  sides  against  them  and 
made  them  give  up  their  vengeance.  At  another 
time,  when  he  had  been  called  upon  to  join  the 
members  of  the  union,  who  had  resolved  to  go 
into  a  wood  yard  and  drive  out  the  non-union  men, 
he  had  refused  to  leave  his  house.  "It  is  not 
right,"  he  had  said:  " those  who  do  not  belong  to 
the  union  have  wives  and  children  just  as  we  have ; 
let  them  come  and  do  not  force  them  to  be  idle. 
It  is  hard  to  be  without  work."  A  third  time  he 
had  joined  the  procession  of  strikers  to  see  what 
happened.  And  he  had  seen  a  clearing  in  the 
middle  of  the  forest  invaded  by  a  howling  mob, 
and  six  men  of  Fonteneilles,  surrounded,  beaten 
and  forced  to  walk  through  the  woods  and  along 
the  roads,  at  the  head  of  the  strikers.  They 
passed  through  the  villages.  They  gathered  up 
some  cowards  who  joined  with  the  band.  The 
frightened  prisoners,  wounded  by  their  sabots, 
begged  to  be  spared.  " March  on!"  And  on  they 
went  crying  for  mercy,  amidst  the  clamour  of 
voices  which  drowned  their  complaints.  Finally 
two  of  them  fell  in  the  road.  Then  there  was  a 
savage  struggle  in  the  twilight.  One  man,  and 
one  man  alone,  fought  against  ten.  Cries  were 
heard  on  the  edge  of  the  pond  of  Vaux,  cries  of 
death  and  of  horror,  so  piercing  that  the  people 
in  the  houses  hidden  under  the  trees  heard  them 
and  closed  their  blinds.  That  night  Cloquet  came 
home  very  late  with  his  clothes  torn  and  his  jaw 
bleeding.  And  when  Marie,  trembling,  questioned 
her  father,  he  said: 


74     THE    COMING    HARVEST 

"Don't  worry,  the  others  are  worse  hurt  than 
I  am." 

From  that  time  on  he  had  bitter  enemies  in  the 
forest.  Those  who  liked  him  defended  him  only 
indifferently  when  Supiat,  one  of  the  leaders, 
proposed  to  take  away  from  him  his  office  of  presi- 
dent of  the  union  of  wood-cutters.  In  place  of 
Gilbert,  the  founder  of  the  union,  the  spokesman 
of  the  forest  workmen  and  of  the  fields  of  Nievre 
at  the  meeting  at  Nevers,  they  elected  his  neigh- 
bour, his  opposite,  Ravoux,  a  chief  who  was  not 
so  handsome  but  younger  and  more  stubborn  and 
who  controlled  the  leaders  because  he  spoke  rarely 
and  because  his  eyes  never  lost  their  fierceness. 
Gilbert  still  went  to  the  reunions  in  the  wine-shops 
of  Fonteneilles  or  of  the  neighbouring  villages; 
the  men  listened  to  him,  but  they  voted  against 
him.  The  young  men  said:  "You  better  give  up 
Gilbert;  now  that  the  machine  is  started,  do  not 
pull  backward!"  Many  who  dared  no  longer 
follow  him  respected  him.  And  he,  whose  heart 
was  all  simple  and  fraternal,  minded  less  being 
relegated  to  the  second  place  than  because  he 
could  not  approve  of  the  plans  and  words  and 
deeds  which  offended  his  sense  of  justice.  "So 
noble  a  cause,"  he  said,  "our  bread,  our  defense; 
they  do  not  love  it  as  I  do!  Not  as  much,  any- 
way!" 

Months  and  years  passed  and  Marie  grew  into 
a  woman.  She  went  out  "by  the  day"  in  the 
village  and  on  the  farms.  She  w&s  tall  and  was 
prettier  than  her  mother  had  been,  although  she 
had  not  the  same  softness  either  of  features 


THE    COMING    HARVEST      75 

or  of  manners.  Her  clients  found  her  brusque, 
changeable,  sometimes  "good  at  her  work," 
sometimes  indolent  and  so  cross-grained  that  they 
could  not  get  an  answer  from  her. 

Her  father  had  the  same  opinion  of  her.  He 
was  afraid  both  of  her  and  for  her.  When  he  was 
far  off,  reaping  wheat  or  eating,  in  a  corner  of  the 
hedge,  the  bread  which  he  had  brought  from 
home,  he  would  think:  "What  is  she  doing  now? 
I  only  know  about  her  what  she  is  willing  to  tell 
me.  Girls  have  secrets  at  her  age.  What  a  pity 
it  is  when  they  have  no  mothers ! "  But  she  was  so 
affectionate  with  him,  when  he  tried  to  scold  her! 
Though  she  was  attentive  and  anxious  at  first,  she 
soon  learned  that  she  never  would  have  any 
trouble  in  defending  herself  against  vague  gossip. 
She  said:  "The  girls  here  are  jealous  of  me  just 
as  formerly  the  young  men  were  jealous  of  you." 
She  made  the  soup  carefully  on  these  evenings, 
and  she  would  bring  out  a  bit  of  salt  pork  or  a  box 
of  sardines  which  are  luxuries  to  the  peasants  of 
Fonteneilles.  Then,  after  the  supper,  she  would  sit 
down  near  her  father  before  the  fire  or  behind  the 
house  where  there  was  an  orchard  no  longer  than 
a  hay-rick,  with  three  apple  trees,  some  currant 
bushes,  a  very  old  rosemary  bush,  some  beehives, 
and  the  forest  rising  all  around.  Marie  caressed 
her  father  and  made  herself  small  beside  him  who 
was  so  tall.  They  seated  themselves  upon  a  thick 
oaken  plank,  which  for  twenty  years  had  been  rot- 
ting along  the  wall.  Sometimes  it  was  hard  to 
make  her  father  smile.  But  Marie  nearly  always 
succeeded.  "Why  did  you  lose  the  custom  of  the 


76     THE    COMING    HARVEST 

Durge*  sisters?  It  seems  you  refused  to  sew  the 
bags  because  it  was  too  hard  work?  Why  did 
you  leave  me  all  alone  on  Sunday  until  five 
o'clock?  Is  it  true  that  you  allow  this  Lureux  to 
pay  attention  to  you?  He  is  not  industrious, 
Marie,  nor  a  reliable  man,  either."  She  laughed 
so  merrily  that  the  neighbours  envied  Gilbert 
Cloquet  his  happy  half-hour.  But  he  did  not 
altogether  believe  what  she  said;  he  let  himself 
be  just  enough  deceived  to  make  himself  stop 
complaining  and  talking  of  the  past.  "Well, 
Marie,  you  must  do  me  credit,  you  must  act  hon- 
estly and  discreetly.  Your  teacher  has  told  you 
that  many  times,  has  she  not?  She  was  right. 
And  besides,  it  would  hurt  me  so  if  you  had  a 
bad  reputation  through  the  country!"  But  he 
felt  that  his  advice  carried  no  weight.  He  shrugged 
his  shoulders  and  said:  "Bring  me  my  pipe;  it 
always  listens  to  me  when  I  talk."  The  thin  blue 
smoke  curled  upward.  Marie  got  up  to  go  and 
lock  the  chicken-house.  And  the  stars  moved  on 
over  a  house  restored  to  silence,  but  not  to  peace. 

One  evening,  at  the  time  of  the  potato-harvest 
in  September,  1898,  after  taking  supper  with  the 
master  of  the  farm  that  stands  on  the  hill  side 
facing  the  great  dam,  weary  with  the  day's  work, 
Gilbert  had  thrown  himself  down  on  a  bed  that 
had  not  been  used  for  a  long  time,  and  whose  posts 
were  rotting  away  in  the  midst  of  piles  of  sacks, 
heaps  of  potatoes,  bands  of  straw,  and  piles  of  old 
harness  which  covered  nearly  the  whole  floor  of 
the  lumber  room.  The  smell  of  the  earth,  that 


THE    COMING    HARVEST      77 

smell  of  the  earth  which  rises  from  the  open  fal- 
low lands,  came  from  the  balls  of  earth  still  hang- 
ing on  the  roots  and  the  blades  of  the  tools,  and 
mingled  with  that  of  old,  waxed,  and  mouldy 
leather.  Gilbert  Cloquet  was  thinking,  reminded 
doubtless  by  all  this,  of  the  work  which  he  must 
shortly  do  in  a  valley  where  the  plow  would  not 
meet  with  a  stone  and  where  the  wheat  sprouted 
readily.  His  mind  was  always  occupied  with  his 
work  or  with  the  slack  season  that  was  approach- 
ing. Some  one  knocked  at  the  door  and  entered. 

"This  is  no  time  to  disturb  one,"  said  Gilbert 
roughly.  ' '  What  do  you  want ? ' ' 

He  was  seated  on  his  bed,  his  open  shirt  show- 
ing his  hairy  chest. 

"Beg  pardon,"  said  a  young  man  who  entered 
briskly  and  remained  standing  at  the  foot  of  the 
bed;  "I  hurried,  but  I  could  not  get  here  any 
earlier;  I  come  from  beyond  Saint-Reverien  and 
am  on  my  way  to  sleep  to-night  at  Vaucreuse, 
where  I  have  been  hired." 

"That  is  a  country  which  I  know  well,"  said 
Gilbert, ' '  but  that  does  not  explain  why  you  have 
come,  Lureux." 

"You  won't  return  to  Pas-du-Loup  until  the 
end  of  the  week,  Monsieur  Cloquet,  and  your 
daughter  Marie  has  charged  me  to  speak  to  you 
on  my  way." 

"My  daughter?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  youth,  still  in  the  shadow; 
"we  have  come  to  an  understanding;  she  likes 
me,  and  I,  I  like  her." 

For  some  minutes  Gilbert  made  no  answer. 


78     THE    COMING    HARVEST 

Many  things  came  to  his  mind  which  he  had  heard 
said  against  this  youth.  He  longed  to  get  up, 
just  as  he  was,  in  his  shirt,  and  to  drive  him  out, 
crying  to  him:  "Begone,  and  seek  elsewhere  than 
at  my  house!" 

But  the  vision  of  Marie  arose  before  him, 
Marie,  displeased,  offended,  and  forever  set  at 
variance  with  him;  he  dreaded  that  final  loneli- 
ness; then  fixing  his  eyes  upon  this  man  who 
leaned  forward  a  little,  attentively,  and  whose 
eyes,  even  in  the  obscurity  of  the  lumber-room, 
shone  with  youthful  impatience,  he  felt  a  certain 
pity  for  one  who,  like  himself,  earned  his  bread  in 
the  forests,  the  fields  and  amongst  the  wheat  with 
difficulty,  like  the  birds,  and  who,  like  them,  had 
to  change  his  granary  with  the  seasons. 

"I  would  not  have  chosen  you,  Lureux,  because 
people  call  you  a  spendthrift." 

"Monsieur  Cloquet,  I  do  not  drink." 

"You  do  not  drink,  perhaps,  but  you  are  in- 
clined to  be  extravagant;  you  pay  for  others  to 
drink  and  you  gamble.  You  will  have  to  reform. 
Listen:  if,  as  you  say,  Marie  is  willing,  I  shall 
find  out  and  I  will  not  oppose  her.  Send  word  to 
her  by  one  of  your  relatives  that,  not  later  than 
Thursday,  after  the  potatoes  are  dug,  I  will  come 
and  talk  with  her." 

He  had  dreamed  sometimes  that  his  future  son- 
in-law,  the  man  through  whom  his  race  would  be 
renewed,  would  throw  himself  on  his  neck  and 
press  him  in  his  arms;  and,  at  that  moment,  he 
felt  in  his  heart  the  sharp  sting  of  disappointment. 
No,  that  could  never  be  i  later,  perhaps,  friendship 


THE    COMING    HARVEST      79 

might  come.  He  held  out  his  hand  to  the  man, 
who  had  walked  around  the  bed  and  approached 
him. 

"For  the  time  being,  my  boy,"  said  he,  "do  not 
go  too  fast  in  your  friendship  with  Marie,  and  do 
not  enter  my  house  before  I  return  there,  because, 
in  that  case,  and  you  know  me,  what  would  follow 
would  not  be  a  marriage,  but  a  shot  at  the  corner 
of  the  road." 

A  suppressed  laugh  answered  him. 

"I  will  do  as  I  say,  Lureux!" 

"Why,  what  are  you  thinking  of,  Monsieur 
Cloquet?  Well,  then,  thanks.  I  have  a  long  way 
to  go  to-night;  I  must  be  off." 

"You  promise  not  to  stop  at  Pas-du-Loup?" 

"Yes." 

The  door  closed,  but  Gilbert  did  not  sleep.  He 
had  used  too  great  self-control  in  order  to  save 
Marie  from  tears;  and  it  was  he  who  wept. 

He  reflected  that  he  had  always  been  alone, 
that  no  one  in  the  world  except  his  old  mother, 
and  Adele  to  a  certain  extent,  both  of  whom  were 
now  dead,  had  ever  loved  him,  poor  tiller  of  the 
soil  and  harvester  of  grain  that  he  was!  He 
thought:  "What  have  I  got  to  live  for  now?  For 
whom  shall  I  work?  For  myself  all  alone?  Oh,  no ! 
That  is  not  worth  while!" 

For  Gilbert  Cloquet  the  world  had  ended  when 
his  comrades  threw  him  over. 

That  same  night,  with  r  his  heart  beating  high 
with  pride,  life,  and  love,  Etienne  Lureux  took  the 
cross-road,  descended  the  hill,  crossed  over  the 
embankment  between  the  ponds  glistening  under 


80     THE    COMING    HARVEST 

the  moonbeams,  and  entered  the  forest  so  as  to 
reach  Pas-du-Loup  more  quickly.  He  ran  over 
the  ground  thick  with  grass  and  laughed.  He 
looked  up  over  the  thickets  at  the  clouds  sailing 
past  the  moon  and  filling  themselves  with  light. 
Then,  stopping  to  take  breath  in  the  deep  soli- 
tude, he  cried  aloud  twice:  "Vive  Marie  Cloquet! 
Vive  the  most  beautiful  girl  of  Fonteneilles,  Cor- 
bigny,  Saint-Saulge,  and  the  whole  world!" 

Finally,  his  feet  white  with  dust  and  dirt,  he 
reached  the  hamlet.  The  five  houses,  hemmed  in 
by  the  woods  on  the  edge  of  the  forest  road,  were 
sleeping.  He  approached  a  window  and  called 
softly:  "Marie?"  He  did  not  wish  Ravoux  in 
the  house  opposite  to  catch  him.  He  grew 
pale  and  the  anguish  of  his  thought  carved  an- 
other face  there.  "Where  can  she  be?  Dead? 
Disappeared?  Marie?"  Then,  all  at  once,  youth 
reappeared  and  happiness  relaxed  his  features; 
the  outside  shutter  opened  and  the  head  of  Marie, 
her  hair  unbound  and  her  eyes  closed  by  the 
semi-darkness  of  the  night,  reached  down  for  the 
man's  kiss. 

"Marie,  I  have  just  come  from  the  farm  of 
Vaux!" 

"Did  you  see  him?" 

"He  did  not  dare  to  say  no." 

"Ah!  What  luck,  my  little  Lureux!" 

Then  she  asked,  smiling  drowsily: 

"Did  he  promise  the  dot? " 

"I  did  not  think  of  it." 

uYou  are  stupid,  my  poor  boy;  he  has  one!" 

He  chatted  for  a  minute  or  two,  and  then,  as  he 


THE    COMING    HARVEST      81 

had  promised  not  to  stop  and  did  not  wish  to  be 
too  false  to  his  promise,  he  again  passionately 
embraced  the  young  girl,  picked  up  the  game 
pouch  which  he  had  laid  on  the  ground  and  with  a 
bound,  leaped  to  the  middle  of  the  forest  path 
and  disappeared.  Marie,  her  head  between  the 
open  shutters,  her  eyes  large,  her  lips  smiling  and 
her  heart  full  of  pride,  looked  after  the  man  who 
would  take  her  away  from  her  life  of  dependence 
and  from  the  gloom  of  those  very  trees  among 
which  he  was  disappearing. 

Shortly  afterward,  Etienne  Lureux  married 
Marie  Cloquet.  The  father,  seeing  that  his  daugh- 
ter was  in  love  with  this  handsome  man,  could 
refuse  her  nothing.  He  yielded  to  that  kind  of 
intoxication  into  which  mothers  are  often  thrown 
by  their  children's  happiness;  he  believed  all  that 
she  said;  he  wished  everything  which  she  asked 
for.  So  that  she  might  he  happy  as  he  had  never 
been,  he  loaned  her  all  his  money,  four  thousand 
francs,  which  he  had  saved  and  invested  by  dint 
of  self-denial  all  his  life.  The  father's  dream  was 
realized  by  the  daughter.  Marie  leased  a  small 
farm  of  twelve  acres,  called  Epine,  quite  near 
the  forest  and  almost  entirely  surrounded  by  the 
estate  of  Fonteneilles,  and  which,  sold  on  the 
death  of  a  peasant  proprietor  of  Crux-la- Ville  to 
satisfy  a  claim,  had  been  quite  recently  bought  by 
the  principal  mortgagee,  a  merchant  of  Avallon. 
She  had  one  servant  who  did  all  the  heavy  work, 
new  furniture,  cows,  sheep,  two  mares,  heavy 
ornaments  of  little  value,  and  the  right  to  look 
down  on  her  old  companions,  the  seamstresses  who 


82      THE    COMING    HARVEST 

worked  out  by  the  day.  It  is  true  that  when  she 
leased  the  farm  she  owed  a  considerable  sum  of 
money,  without  counting  the  loan  from  her 
father.  But  Lureux  swore  that  in  less  than  five 
years  he  would  undertake  to  be  free  from  debt. 
In  vain  Mere  Justamond,  a  matron  who  spoke 
plainly,  had  said  to  her  neighbour,  the  evening 
before  the  signing  of  the  deed:  " Excuse  me  if  I 
seem  to  be  meddling  in  your  affairs,  Gilbert  Clo- 
quet,  but  you  ought  not  to  give  everything  to 
your  children.  They  take  whatever  is  given  them 
as  if  it  were  their  due.  They  promise  gratitude, 
but  that  is  a  seed  which  seldom  sprouts."  He 
had  answered:  "Mere  Justamond,  I  have  worked 
for  my  wife,  and  she  is  dead.  I  have  worked  for 
my  comrades,  and  they  begin  to  desert  me.  I  am 
trying  now  to  gain  the  friendship  of  my  daughter 
and  my  son-in-law;  you  must  let  me  act." 

Since  that  day  more  than  seven  years  had 
passed,  and  many  changes  had  taken  place  in 
Gilbert's  surroundings. 

Nievre,  at  least  the  valley  of  Corbigny,  Saint- 
Saulge,  and  Saint-Bernin-d'Azy  had  become  a 
great  cattle-raising  country.  White  oxen,  white 
cows,  and  black  draught-horses  wandered  in  the 
pasture-lands  in  herds  twice  as  numerous  as  before. 
And  to  nourish  them  the  pastures  had  been  mul- 
tiplied. The  grass  had  crept  from  the  hollows 
of  the  valleys  up  on  the  slopes  of  the  hill.  It 
was  taking  the  place  of  wheat  and  rye,  and  eating 
into  the  country  that  had  always  been  kept  for 
the  hemp-fields.  The  beautiful  knoll  of  La  Vigie, 
which  used  to  be  plowed  every  year,  was  now 


THE    COMING    HARVEST      83 

smooth  and  green  as  an  emerald  clear  to  the  top, 
and  more  than  half  the  land  which  covered  its 
slopes  was  clad  with  the  same  grass,  continu- 
ally getting  higher  up  and  only  resowed  after 
a  very  long  time.  This  whole  Nivernais  clump 
resembled  a  park.  The  less  cultivated  country 
grew  more  silent.  Something  primitive  and 
peaceful  came  back  there  with  the  shadow  of  the 
woods  moving  over  the  meadows.  One  could  see 
at  the  fairs  of  Corbigny  or  of  Saint-Saulge  more 
than  two  thousand  head  of  cattle.  Cattle-dealers 
flocked  there  from  all  over  France  and  from 
abroad.  The  farmers  became  rich.  But  the  day- 
labourers  complained,  for  there  was  less  soil  to 
work,  fewer  harvests  to  cut.  Machinery  also 
stole  hundreds  of  days'  work  from  them.  For  a 
long  time  past  no  one  had  threshed  with  the  roll, 
and  the  flails  astride  the  joists  no  longer  moved 
except  when  the  wind  blew  through  the  tiles.  The 
drill  plow,  the  mower,  the  reaper,  and  the  binder 
now  did  the  work  formerly  done  by  men. 

The  forest  even  no  longer  gave  the  sure  work 
which  had  been  found  there  before.  After  years 
of  efforts,  failures,  new  attempts,  legitimate 
strikes,  and  unjust  outrages  the  wood-cutters  had 
obtained  a  perceptible  increase  in  their  wages. 
The  day's  work  was  well  paid.  But  people  who 
came  from  all  parts  of  the  country,  from  Morvan 
and  Cher,  from  Allier  or  parts  of  Nievre  far  dis- 
tant from  Fonteneilles  and  often  men  who  did  not 
belong  to  the  trade,  enrolled  themselves  in  the 
union  and  claimed  the  right  to  work.  No  one 
asked  them:  "What  brings  you?"  It  was  sup- 


84     THE    COMING    HARVEST 

posed,  naturally,  that  it  was  hunger.  No  one 
said  to  them:  "Have  you  handled  axes  or  saws 
before?"  They  just  let  them  enter  and  they 
crowded  the  cuttings.  They  considered  that,  ac- 
cording to  the  old  custom,  "  every  cutting  hired 
is  free  for  all,"  as  soon  as  a  wood  merchant  de- 
clared it  open.  The  number  of  the  workmen  les- 
sened in  this  way  the  gain  of  each  individual,  and 
the  profit  of  the  year  did  not  mount  up  as  the 
day-labourers  of  Fonteneilles  had  hoped. 

Gilbert  suffered  greatly  from  this  uncertainty 
about  the  future.  He  was  fifty-two  years  old.  The 
habit  of  work,  the  air  of  the  fields,  and  his  simple 
food  had  kept  him  in  good  health.  His  strength 
and  the  accuracy  of  his  stroke  with  the  axe  were 
the  same  as  of  old.  He  dug  like  a  young  man.  He 
still  had  the  elastic  step  which  men  have  who  are 
physically  sound,  whose  muscles  extend  and  relax 
in  unison,  with  no  one  lagging  behind  the  other. 
His  beard  was  .still  blond,  only  one  who  was  very 
near  could  see  the  few  white  hairs  in  the  fox-fur 
on  his  chin.  When,  on  Sunday,  well  groomed  and 
having  had  his  glass  of  wine,  he  went  down  the 
road  leading  from  the  town  to  Pas-du-Loup,  more 
than  one  of  his  comrades  and  even  the  girls  of 
Fonteneilles  often  mistook  him  and  asked : 

"Who  is  the  young  fellow  who  is  coming  back 
so  early?" 

When  he  laughed  his  eyes  grew  bright  like 
those  of  a  child  who  believes  in  joy. 

But  he  rarely  laughed  on  account  of  the  slack 
seasons  and  on  account  of  the  comrades  who  had 
deserted  him,  although  they  respected  him,  and 


THE    COMING    HARVEST      85 

on  account  of  Marie,  who  was  not  making  a  suc- 
cess of  the  farm  of  Epine.  Lureux's  promises  had 
proved  to  be  vain  boasts.  He  worked  without 
enthusiasm  or  steadiness  and  spent  much,  although 
they  had  no  children.  There  was  always  a  free 
meal  at  his  house.  The  road  was  quite  nearby 
and  much  travelled  and  people  stopped  at  the  Lu- 
reux's  to  gossip  a  little  and,  to  drink.  And  the 
wine  which  the  master  of  Epine  imported  from 
the  South,  by  the  boatmen  of  the  canal,  never  had 
time  to  age.  "  Youth  must  pass,"  people  said. 
"It  has  passed,"  replied  Gilbert.  From  time  to 
time  he  heard  people  say  that  debts  were  accu- 
mulating, not  with  the  tradespeople  of  the  town 
whom  they  succeeded  in  paying,  but  with  the 
notary  where  they  owed  three  instalments  of  rent 
and  with  the  money-lenders  of  Corbigny  and  Ne- 
vers.  For  a  long  time  Marie  denied  these  debts. 
Finally  she  owned  up  to  them  and  came  to  her 
father  for  money  nearly  every  week.  He  gave 
the  money  and  he  hardly  dared  to  reproach  his 
daughter  for  at  the  slightest  word  she  threatened 
to  break  with  him.  The  next  day  she  would  go, 
dressed  in  her  Sunday  clothes,  to  a  fair  or  to 
market  or  to  a  wedding  leaving  her  house  in 
the  care  of  the  servant  or  of  any  shepherd  who 
happened  to  be  passing.  Several  times  Gilbert 
offered  to  take  care  of  the  animals  and  to  manage 
the  farm  for  Marie.  But  they  did  not  want  him 
to  see  at  too  close  range  the  disorder  of  their 
household.  So  he  only  went  to  Epine  when  they 
invited  him  and  the  invitations  were  rare. 
And  that  is  what  kept  Gilbert  Cloquet  from 


86     THE    COMING    HARVEST 

sleeping  on  that  March  night  when  Michel  de 
Meximieu  was  also  meditating,  his  elbows  on  the 
window  sill.  The  wood-cutter  was  thinking  of 
things  long  past ,  but  he  told  himself  also  that 
since  he  had  received  twenty  francs  in  advance 
for  his  work  of  the  next  few  days,  he  would  go 
early  in  the  morning,  and  give  half  of  it  to 
Marie,  who  would  be  pleased. 
And  who  knows  what  might  happen? 


III. 


THE  READING  IN  THE  FOREST. 

GILBERT  CLOQUET  did  not  have  to  go  far  to  see 
his  daughter;  a  foot-path  led  through  the  trees  to 
the  corner  of  the  pond  of  Vaux,  which  lies  quite 
near  the  hamlet  of  Pas-du-Loup.  It  wound 
around  the  bank  among  the  marshy  meadows  and 
disappeared  on  the  way  up  in  the  middle  of  the 
first  field.  These  fields,  upon  the  " broadside"  of 
the  forest,  as  Gilbert  called  it,  these  twelve  acres 
divided  into  about  fifteen  parts,  with  the  house  in 
the  middle,  and  forming  the  extreme  limit  of  the 
township,  made  up  the  estate  of  Epine,  which, 
thanks  to  Gilbert's  generosity,  the  Lureux  had 
leased. 

It  was  very  early;  the  silence  was  so  profound 
that  the  noise  of  the  water  rippling  over  a  stone 
in  the  ditches  could  be  heard.  Gilbert  carried  his 
axe  on  his  shoulder,  holding  the  handle  first  with 
his  left  hand  and  then  with  his  right  on  account 
of  the  cold.  He  stopped  to  count  the  white  cows 
in  the  meadow  which  began  on  the  outskirts  of 
the  forest  and  which  was  crossed  by  a  trench;  he 
cast  a  glance  at  the  furrows  in  the  field  above, 
plowed  land  where  grain  was  growing,  to  judge  of 
the  work  of  the  plowman  and  of  the  sower.  When 
he  entered  the  court  he  found  Marie,  who  had 

87 


88     THE    COMING    HARVEST 

just  drawn  a  bucket  of  water,  in  a  short  skirt  and 
with  her  hair  uncombed  and  only  twisted  up  at 
the  back.  When  she  saw  her  father  she  put  the 
bucket  down  on  the  manure  pile  at  the  side  of  the 
well,  and  came  toward  him  in  a  pleased  and  affec- 
tionate way. 

"Why,  is  it  you,  father?" 

He  looked  at  her  as  she  came  toward  him  care- 
lessly and  offering  her  lips  for  a  kiss.  She  still 
kept  her  youthful,  shining  eyes — so  hard  when 
she  was  not  smiling — but  her  cheeks  were  paler 
than  they  had  been  and  her  features  had  coars- 
ened. Gilbert  allowed  himself  to  be  kissed. 

"So,  all  goes  well?"  asked  Marie.  "Where  are 
you  going  with  your  axe  now?  Lureux  told  me 
he  would  not  be  through  till  this  evening." 

"I  have  left  my  cutting  because  I  had  finished 
it,"  replied  her  father  dryly.  "And  now  I  have 
some  other  work  to  do  and  am  on  my  way 
to  it." 

"You  are  all  the  luckier  to  have  work.  Every- 
body can't  get  it,"  said  Marie  piqued. 

"Ah!  Marie,  how  can  you  keep  on  complain- 
ing? If  I  had  a  fine  farm  like  yours,  I  would 
never  have  left  it,  in  the  first  place.  I  would  have 
dug  it  up  and  manured  it  and  weeded  it.  Why 
does  your  husband  work  in  the  forest?  Is  that 
any  place  for  a  farmer?" 

"Three  or  four  days  here  and  there;  is  there 
any  harm  in  that?" 

"It  would  be  better  if  he  worked  at  home." 

"It  is  because  we  owe  some  money,  father! 
We  cannot  pay  the  rent!" 


THE    COMING    HARVEST      89 

"Ah, indeed!  The  rent  has  not  been  paid?  Nor 
the  wine  merchant,  neither?" 

"No." 

"And  the  cartwright,  who  sold  you  your  yellow 
spring  cart?" 

"No,  nor  he,  either,  nor  many  others,  too!  It 
is  not  worth  while  keeping  it  from  you  now." 

"Lureux  lied,  then,  when  he  told  me  that  you 
owed  scarcely  anything  and  that  if  I  helped  him, 
he  would  be  able  to  pay  it  all?" 

She  turned  away  her  head  as  if  she  heard  a 
noise  in  the  house,  but  really  to  avoid  answering. 

Gilbert  put  down  his  axe  which  stood  up  by 
itself,  with  the  handle  in  the  air. 

"It  is  ruin,  then,  which  is  coming,  Marie? 
Both  to  you  two  and  to  me?" 

"Perhaps  so,  father,  unless  you  are  more  liberal 
than  you  have  been!" 

The  big  wood-cutter  made  a  forward  movement 
with  his  head  lowered,  as  if  he  meant  to  throw 
himself  upon  her. 

"Ah!   Heartless  that  you  are!"  he  cried. 

The  woman  started  back,  her  body  stiffened, 
and  her  face  so  hard  that  its  beauty  was  entirely 
gone. 

"Heartless  girl!  This  is  your  thanks!  I  have 
given  you  the  whole  work  of  my  life  and  the  tor- 
ment of  my  soul.  And  it  is  never  enough!  Now 
work  yourselves,  you  lazy  pair!  Struggle  for 
yourselves!" 

"Did  mother  trouble  herself  about  anything? 
Tell  me  that?  Did  she  work?  Not  as  much  as 
I  do!" 


90     THE    COMING    HARVEST 

"Any  way,  she  combed  her  hair  before  she  did 
her  housework." 

"Thanks,  papa!" 

"She  would  never  have  put  a  pail  of  water  down 
on  the  manure  pile.  She  was  careful;  she  had 
some  pride." 

"Thanks  again!" 

"And  on  Sunday  she  did  not  pretend  she  was 
a  lady  with  laces  and  city  gowns!" 

"Aren't  we  as  good  as  the  ladies?  Why  not, 
indeed?" 

"You're  not  as  rich,  anyway!  And  all  this 
time  you  have  only  eight  cows,  and  lean  ones 
too!"' 

"They  have  enough  to  eat,  though." 

"You  should  have  a  dozen." 

"We  have  sheep,  father." 

"Yes,  and  where  are  your  lambs?  You  asked 
me  for  money  to  buy  some ;  where  are  they?' 

The  daughter  came  up  to  her  father  whose  anger 
was  growing  and  tried  to  appease  him.  But  she 
put  little  heart  in  it,  and  she  only  succeeded  in 
lying  a  little  with  her  eyes. 

"We  are  unhappy,  I  tell  you;  every  one  is  after 
us.  The  bailiff  threatens  to  come." 

"The  bailiff!" 

The  woman  began  to  weep.  Gilbert  took  from 
his  pocket  two  five-franc  pieces  and,  with  a  rough 
gesture,  placed  them  in  his  daughter's  hand. 

"I  am  very  poor  at  present,  Marie,  but  I  do  not 
want  to  see  the  bailiff  at  your  house !  Tell  Lureux 
that  I  am  giving  you  my  pay  for  work  which  I 
have  not  yet  done." 


THE    COMING    HARVEST      91 

The  woman  looked  at  the  two  silver  pieces  and 
slipped  them  into  her  pocket. 

"Tell  him  that  there  are  not  enough  cattle  in 
his  pastures." 

"That's  easily  said!" 

"Not  manure  enough  on  his  land!" 

"No  one  asked  you  to  go  and  look!" 

"And  no  child  in  his  house." 

This  time,  the  woman  all  red  and  her  lips 
quivering  with  anger,  replied: 

"No  child!  That  is  our  affair!  And  you,  my 
father,  why  did  you  only  have  one?" 

The  father  did  not  reply.  The  daughter  had  an 
obscure  sense  of  the  sacrilege  she  had  committed. 
She  blushed.  They  looked  at  each  other,  embar- 
rassed by  the  reproach  and  by  the  avowal  which 
their  silence  prolonged.  Then  Marie  turned  to 
pick  up  her  pail  of  water  and  carry  it  to  the 
house.  Her  father  let  her  go. 

When  she  reached  the  threshold : 

"Marie  Lureux,"  Gilbert  cried,  "you  are  a 
girl  who  is  going  to  her  ruin;  I  have  loved  you 
only  too  well,  and  that  has  been  your  undoing;  I 
gave  you  too  much  and  you  have  become  the 
lazy  creature  you  are.  Hereafter  you  will  get 
nothing  more  from  me.  All  is  over  between 
us!  Tell  Lureux  so  that  he  may  not  come 
again!" 

She  called,  turning  half  around : 

"You  will  not  see  him  again!  Indeed,  no!  No 
matter  what  happens!" 

The  wood-cutter  picked  up  his  axe  and  started 
toward  the  corner  of  the  stables  so  as  to  go  round 


92     THE    COMING    HARVEST 

the  house  and  back  to  the  road.  He  turned  over 
in  his  mind  confusedly,  as  a  child  shells  chestnuts, 
the  good  and  bad  words  he  had  spoken,  and  he 
murmured,  shaken  by  anger: 

"When  I  think  that  this  was  my  little  Marie, 
the  child  I  dandled  on  my  knees!" 

Before  reaching  the  road  by  which  he  must  go 
down  to  the  forest,  there  was  a  point  from  whence 
one  could  see,  well  above  the  village  and  a  little  to 
the  left,  the  hill  of  La  Vigie,  the  roofs  of  the  vast 
farm  placed  on  the  rising  ground  and  the  round 
ash  tree  which  commanded  its  entrance.  Gilbert 
stopped.  As  usual,  he  imagined  himself  in  that 
court  where  he  had  so  often  unyoked  his  oxen; 
then  he  looked  at  the  fields,  sloping  down  from 
there  all  green  and  fresh  with  the  morning.  Gil- 
bert Cloquet  could  never  look  at  this  most  beau- 
tiful hill  of  the  region  without  thinking  how  he 
had  climbed  to  La  Vigie  at  the  age  when  small 
lads,  their  short  breeches  suspended  from  their 
shoulders  by  wide  braces,  begin  to  feel  the  desire 
to  make  large  animals  afraid  and  to  strike  them 
with  branches  of  leaves,  and  how  he  had  not  left 
it  till  after  his  marriage  because  his  wife  wanted 
him  to. 

"It  has  always  been  women  who  have  thrown 
me  from  one  trouble  into  another,"  he  murmured. 
"I  had  trouble  up  there  and  that  is  the  truth. 
And  ever  since  then!  And  now,  too!  Come,  go  to 
the  woods,  my  poor  Cloquet!  Go  hide  yourself, 
you  father  of  a  bankrupt!  Fifteen  days  of  cut- 
ting wood,  it  is  worth  doing." 

He  stopped  looking  up,  crossed  over  the  road, 


THE    COMING    HARVEST      93 

and  went  on  through  the  avenue  of  the  chateau 
to  the  forest. 

It  was  past  noon.  The  wood-cutters  were  eat- 
ing their  lunch  in  the  large  cutting  of  Fonteneilles, 
near  the  pond  of  Vaux,  and  far  from  the  place 
where  Gilbert  was  working.  Those  whose  cut- 
tings were  near  and  who  gathered  together  to 
eat  and  chat  and  take  a  few  moments  nap, 
formed  groups  here  and  there  in  the  cleared  glade. 
Seated  upon  their  heels,  leaning  against  handfuls 
of  cut  twigs  which  bent  like  springs,  or  lying  on 
their  sides,  they  ate  crusts  of  bread  taken  from 
their  bags,  taking  care  to  add  to  each  mouthful 
a  small  slice  from  the  bit  of  cheese  or  bacon  held 
under  the  left  thumb.  Each  one  had  his  quart 
of  wine  uncorked  beside  him  and  thrust  down  in 
the  chips  or  leaves.  It  was  warm  in  the  sheltered 
places  and  cold  in  the  wind.  The  men  talked 
little,  but  they  felt  that  they  lived  together  and 
they  laughed  at  the  least  thing.  The  fatigue  dis- 
appeared from  their  tingling  legs  and  arms. 
Their  hats  drawn  down  over  their  foreheads, 
protected  them  from  the  sun  which  was  intense 
in  the  clear  air. 

Ravoux's  group  was  nearest  the  pond  at  the 
left  of  the  cutting. 

The  president  of  the  union  had  already  finished 
eating.  Seated  upon  a  trunk  of  witch-elm,  he  had 
drawn  a  paper  from  his  pocket  and  was  reading  in 
an  undertone,  with  nervous  grimaces  which  stirred 
his  black  beard  and  stretched  the  dry  skin  of  his 
cheek  bones.  Eight  workmen  had  gathered  around 


94     THE    COMING    HARVEST 

him.  They  had  hardly  exchanged  thirty  words 
since  the  beginning  of  the  meal.  One  of  the 
workmen  had  merely  said:  "The  work  will  be 
finished  this  evening.  I  do  not  know  when  I  shall 
find  anymore;"  and  another:  "  Hear  the  black- 
birds singing;  that  means  the  Spring."  Some  had 
closed  their  eyes  and  some  had  their  mouths  stu- 
pidly half-open.  Their  bodies  sought  the  comfort 
of  the  sun.  At  Ravoux's  right  and  a  little  in 
front  was  Fontroubade,  the  mason  of  Fonteneilles 
whom  they  nicknamed  Goose-beak,  because  he 
had  a  long  nose,  a  retreating  chin,  and  always 
looked  as  if  he  were  laughing,  a  sort  of  professional 
grimace  made  by  his  eyelids  which  were  wrinkled 
by  the  glare  from  white  walls;  next  came  Dix- 
neuf  who  leaned  against  him  and  supported  him 
with  his  shoulder,  a  mason  also,  a  former  zouave, 
quite  old,  very  deaf  and  proud  of  his  goatee  and 
of  the  reputation  which  he  had  of  making  better 
than  any  one  else  "cambrouse,"  with  the  blood  from 
the  neck  of  the  roe-deer;  then  Lampriere,  a  tall 
thin  man,  who  always  seemed  to  be  in  a  passion 
and  who  frightened  the  " bourgeois"  when  he 
looked  at  them  in  passing  on  the  highway;  then 
Lureux,  son-in-law  of  Cloquet,  a  farmer  whom 
they  were  surprised  to  see  there,  a  tippler  whose 
mustache  was  colorless  and  softened  by  the  fumes 
of  alcohol,  a  joker,  lazy  and  unreliable;  then  the 
tile-maker  Tournabien,  a  quarrelsome  young  fel- 
bw  with  the  face  and  litheness  of  a  wild  cat ;  then 
Le  Devore,  a  farmer's  lad,  sluggish,  red,  and  sad- 
looking;  then  Supiat,  who  called  himself  a  joiner, 
but  never  did  any  joiner's  work,  a  poacher  of  fish, 


THE    COMING    HARVEST      95 

setter  of  snares  in  the  woods,  a  speech-maker  with 
the  face  of  a  fox  and  the  eyes  of  a  ferret,  who  de- 
nounced those  who  were  lukewarm  to  the  General 
Confederation  of  Labour;  lastly,  a  tall  youth  of 
about  twenty,  a  handsome  smiling  fellow,  called 
Jean- Jean.  He  had  come  whistlihg  down  from 
the  forests  of  Montreuillon,  without  saying  why 
he  came.  And  the  warm  sun  inclined  the  men 
comfortably  to  repose,  and  no  thought  aroused 
them  from  their  half  sleep  or  excited  them  until 
Fontroubade,  who  did  not  know  the  difference 
between  a  manuscript  and  a  printed  paper,  asked, 
pointing  to  Ravoux : 

"What  is  our  president  brooding  over,  there? 
Is  it  a  speech  of  the  deputy?" 

"Something  better  than  that,  and  which  car- 
ries farther/7  said  Ravoux,  lifting  his  shaggy 
beard  and  keen  eyes,  irritated  now  because  his 
thought  had  been  noticed  before  he  was  ready. 
"Let  me  finish.  This  is  a  secret  document,  an  auto- 
graph letter,  which  I  must  read  to  all  our  friends." 

"Holloa,  Mechin!"  cried  a  voice.  "Holloa! 
friends!  Ravoux  is  going  to  read,  come  along!" 

The  call  flew  through  the  immense  glade,  and 
far  off,  wood-cutters  rose  up,  as  if  they  had  sprung 
from  the  roots  of  the  oaks,  and  came  in  haste, 
dragging  their  feet  and  making  furrows  through 
the  dead  leaves.  Ravoux  was  absorbed  again  in 
his  manuscript  but  political  passions  had  been 
roused. 

"The  deputy?"  said  big  Le  DeVore.  "He  will 
come  whenever  we  have  orders  to  give  him!" 

"He  will  come  right  here  into  the  cutting,  and 


96     THE    COMING    HARVEST 

we  will  make  him  sit  down  on  a  pointed  stick  if 
we  feel  like  it!" 

For  the  first  time  there  was  spirit,  ring,  and 
pride  in  their  words.  They  uncrossed  their  legs. 
Two  men  lying  down  sat  up  and  stretched  their 
arms.  Supiat,  leaning  his  sandy  laughing  face 
forward  said: 

"Have  you  heard  what  happened  to  the  dep- 
uty of last  week?" 

And  he  named  another  forest  district  of  the 
centre  of  France. 

"No,  tell  us,  Supiat." 

The  blackbirds  began  to  fly  away  from  this  corner 
of  the  forest  where  people  were  speaking  so  loud. 

"Well,  he  came  to  visit  his  'dear  constituents'; 
people  like  ourselves;  and  he  found  them  at  table. 
'How  do  you  do,  my  friends?'  They  were  eating 
herrings  and  the  youngest  of  the  band,  Bellman, 
who  has  plenty  of  spirit,  answered  him:  'You 
call  us  your  friends?'  'Most  certainly  I  do.' 
'Well,  we're  not,  we  are  your  masters,  and  you 
are  our  servant !  We  are  eating  herrings ;  you  see 
them  and  you  have  got  to  eat  some,  too ! ' ' 

"What  did  he  do?   That  must  have  been  fun!" 

"He  ate  them,  my  children!  He  would  have 
eaten  the  very  bones  if  they  had  not  said:  'That 
will  do!'" 

"Deputies  amount  to  nothing  at  all!"  said 
Fontroubade  with  his  thick  voice. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  Ravoux?  Why  did 
you  call  us?"  asked  four  young  men  belonging  to 
the  Union  who  came  up  arm  in  arm. 

"He  is  going  to  read,"  said  Jean-Jean. 


THE    COMING    HARVEST      97 

"Is  that  all?    Just  something  from  the  paper?" 

"No,"  said  Ravoux,  lowering  the  paper,  a 
double  sheet,  in  folio  form,  covered  with  the 
regular  round  handwriting  of  the  copyist.  "No, 
it  is  an  appeal  which  comes  from  Paris  to  the  till- 
ers of  the  soil !  —  After  the  factory  workmen 
they  are  going  to  enroll  the  tillers  of  the  soil,  all 
of  them,  all!" 

The  men's  faces  grew  grave.  They  formed  a 
semicircle  before  Ravoux  and  they  drew  a  few 
inches  nearer,  without  rising,  just  dragging  them- 
selves along  over  the  leaves.  There  was  a  rustling 
commotion  of  branches  and  twigs.  And  still  the 
blackbird  sang,  but  very  far  off.  Ravoux  opened 
his  mouth  like  a  bow.  He  enunciated  clearly  and 
rolled  out  the  phrases,  and  he  had  white  teeth 
with  which  he  smiled  at  the  fine  points : 

"To  the  tillers  of  the  soil! 

"Comrades,  for  years  and  years,  for  centuries 
and  centuries,  we  have  been  ground  down  to  the 
earth  from  morning  till  night,  without  reflecting 
on  our  lot,  without  looking  around  us,  convinced 
that  all  we  could  do  was  to  earn  a  morsel  of  bread 
with  the  greatest  effort."  The  audience  let  this 
introduction  pass  without  showing  any  emotion. 
They  knew  the  beginning.  They  were  already 
tired  of  it.  Ravoux  resumed: 

"But  it  is  never  too  late  to  do  well!  Let  us  ask 
this  question,  and  reply  to  it  honestly: 

"Who  produces  the  wheat,  that  is  to  say,  the 
bread  for  everybody?  The  peasant! 

"Who  grows  the  oats,  the  barley,  all  the  cere- 
als? The  peasant! 


98     THE    COMING    HARVEST 


"Who  raises  the  cattle  for  meat?   The  peasant! 

"Who  produces  the  wine  and  cider?  The 
peasant ! 

"Who  feeds  the  game?   The  peasant!" 

—"There's  something  that  is  true!  The  game! 
yes,  the  game!" 

— "Be  silent,  Lampriere.  There  is  no  more 
game,  thanks  to  you  and  Supiat." 

— "Let  the  president  go  on!" 

"In  a  word,  you  produce  everything!  What 
does  your  farmer-general  or  your  landowner  pro- 
duce? Nothing!" 

—"That  is  true!" 

— "He  provides  the  ground,  all  the  same!" 

—"Who  said  that?" 

— "Jean- Jean." 

— "Keep  still,  Jean- Jean!  You  are  too  unim- 
portant to  speak!" 

Supiat,  giving  a  twist  to  his  back,  fell  forward  on 
his  knees,  then,  stretching  himself  flat,  leaning  upon 
his  hands,  remained  intent,  like  an  animal,  looking 
at  Ravoux.  He  was  like  a  fox  who  scented  game. 
Every  passion  blazed  in  his  half-closed  eyes. 
Tournabien  drew  his  knife  back  and  forth  over 
his  bread,  as  if  it  was  a  stone  he  was  sharpening  it 
on.  Lureux  chuckled  inwardly,  his  eyes  fixed  on 
the  ground,  thinking  of  his  creditors  from  whom 
a  revolution  would  help  him  to  escape.  An  ex- 
traordinary silence  came  over  the  thirteen  men. 
They  thought  they  were  listening,  but  really  they 
were  seeing  visions.  The  same  words  grew  for 
each  one  of  them  into  different  yet  clear  images. 
They  saw  beings  of  flesh  and  blood — the  propri- 


THE    COMING    HARVEST      99 

etor,  the  farmer-general,  the  overseer,  the  forester, 
the  wood  merchant,  clerk,  all  their  enemies. 
The  grievance  so  often  unexpressed  finally  took 
form.  They  rejoiced  to  have  their  own  resent- 
ment clearly  expressed.  They  recognized  them- 
selves in  these  ideas,  written  in  Paris  by  a  man 
unknown  to  them.  And  their  confidence  in  their 
own  strength,  the  more  vague  vision  of  the  crowds, 
unions,  revolutions,  pillagings,  justice,  revenge, 
unheard-of  intoxications,  made  them  grimace  or 
open  their  mouths  as  if  to  cry  out:  "I  am  part  of 
it!"  There  were  hardly  two  or  three  who  under- 
stood the  falseness  of  the  appeal.  All  were  strang- 
ers in  the  realm  of  words.  They  did  not  stop 
there;  they  went  beyond  it  and  judged  the  whole 
world.  The  anonymous  declaration  of  their  rights 
sufficed  for  the  expression  of  their  sufferings. 
There  was  no  force  within  them  to  oppose  this 
passion  of  envy.  Their  faces  all  expressed  the 
same  emotion.  They  were  the  faces  of  believers, 
of  men  inspired,  or  of  wild  animals  on  guard.  The 
four  men  who  had  come  from  far  still  held  each 
other  arm  in  arm.  And  a  golden  light  fell  on  their 
lifted  heads. 

"  Comrades  in  the  country.  We  are  small  be- 
cause we  bow  down  before  the  rich;  let  us  hold 
up  our  heads,  once  for  all,  and  we  shall  see  that  we 
are  taller  than  they!  Our  comrades  of  the  mines 
and  of  the  shops  have  shown  us  the  way;  they 
are  only  waiting  for  our  organization,  which  will 
be  a  great  power,  to  march  forward.  Comrades 
of  the  country,  let  us  consider  this  well :  If  to- 
morrow all  the  tillers  of  the  soil  should  disap- 


100    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

pear,  what  would  be  sure  to  happen?  A  general 
famine,  frightful  distress,  and  probably  the  death, 
in  a  few  years,  of  a  great  majority  of  those  who 
were  left.  And  if,  to-morrow,  all  the  people  of 
leisure  should  disappear,  it  is  fair  to  suppose  that 
no  great  harm  would  result,  but  that,  on  the 
contrary,  humanity  would  heave  an  immense  sigh 
of  relief.  And  yet,  we  do  not  want  to  make  any 
one  disappear." 

A  few  heads  nodded  approvingly. 

"But  we  wish  to  see  the  day  when  every  one  in 
the  world  will  be  obliged  to  work  in  order  to  live, 
when  there  will  be  neither  exploiters  nor  exploited. 
That  day  will  surely  come.  That  will  be  the  com- 
mencement of  our  work.  Comrades,  let  us  go 
forward  toward  the  great  goal!  Vive  the  eman- 
cipation of  the  workingman!" 

Ravoux  stopped  speaking,  but  they  listened 
still,  thrilled,  breathless,  with  dilated  nostrils. 
Two  or  three,  the  poets,  the  musicians,  the  young, 
were  dreaming  of  an  idyllic  future.  Jean- Jean 
had  risen  to  his  feet  and  was  gazing  into  the  clear 
blue  of  the  sky,  with  enchanted  eyes;  he  loved 
a  pretty  girl  of  Corbigny  and  he  saw  her  with  him 
in  Paris,  in  a  carriage  with  two  horses  rolling  along 
the  avenues.  The  light  glorified  the  rugged  bark 
of  the  trees.  The  immense  forest  also  was  drink- 
ing in  a  new  life.  The  men's  thoughts  were  still 
on  the  misleading  words.  They  had  floated  over 
them  as  the  smoke  of  a  train  trails  over  the 
ploughed  field.  The  smoke  had  cleared  away; 
but  something  of  it  still  remained  by  which  the 
soil  was  invisibly  penetrated  and  spoiled. 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    101 

"It  strikes  home,"  said  Lampriere. 

"It's  a  masterpiece,"  replied  Ravoux,  folding 
up  the  paper.  "There  is  a  plan  of  organization!" 

"Down  with  the  proprietors!  Who  will  set  fire 
to  the  woods?  "  cried  Tournabien,  springing  to  his 
feet. 

He  felt  in  his  pocket  for  his  tinder-box. 

"No  foolishness!"  cried  Ravoux.  "The  forest 
is  our  living.  These  friends  in  Paris  do  not  tell  us 
to  burn,  they  tell  us  to  organize,  to  enroll  all  the 
day-labourers  of  Fonteneilles." 

"There  are  some  who  do  not  pay  their  assess- 
ment!" cried  Tournabien. 

"There  are  some  who  do  not  want  to  join  with 
us,  the  canailles!"  cried  Lampriere. 

The  cords  of  his  throat  remained  tense  and 
quivering  with  anger  after  he  had  spoken. 

"There  are  traitors  among  us,  Ravoux!" 

"What  are  you  saying?  Who  are  you  talking 
about?" 

It  was  Supiat,  who  suggested  that  there  were 
traitors.  Ravoux  rose  and  walked  over  to  the 
carpenter  wood-cutter,  whom  he  detested. 

"Are  you  speaking  of  me?" 

A  tumult  interrupted  him. 

"No!  No!    Explain  yourself,  Supiat!" 

Groups  of  men  were  watching  in  the  distance. 
Supiat  half  closed  his  eyes;  he  was  on  all  fours; 
he  laughed  wickedly  and  pushed  back  his  hat, 
with  the  back  of  his  hand,  on  his  neck,  and 
ground  his  teeth,  as  if  he  were  going  to  bite 
Ravoux,  who  was  bending  over  him. 

"You  never  know  what  is  going  on,"  he  said 


102    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

laughing,  "you  are  a  poor  president,  Ravoux. 
Yes,  there  are  traitors.  There  are  those  who  hire 
themselves  all  alone,  for  a  cutting,  and  who  say 
nothing  about  it  to  their  comrades,  so  as  not  to 
have  to  share  with  them."  All  the  men  who  were 
still  seated  or  lying  down  rose  together.  Supiat, 
who  was  half  a  head  taller  than  Ravoux,  stood  up 
facing  him,  his  look  vibrant  with  the  evil  joy  of 
his  disclosure. 

"Just  look  and  see  who  is  missing  here?" 

Ten  men  counted  and  named  rapidly  the  wood- 
cutters present.  Two  cried  at  the  same  time: 

"Cloquet!  It  is  Cloquet!" 

"It  is  he!" 

"Where  is  he?" 

"Ask  Lureux." 

Four  of  the  most  excited  surrounded  Lureux, 
seized  him  by  the  shoulders  and  shook  him.  The 
son-in-law  of  Cloquet  was  frightened,  but  he  tried 
to  joke. 

"Let  me  go!  I  have  no  wish  to  run  away!  I 
will  tell  you  what  you  want  to  know.  Why  do 
you  crowd  around  so!  Let  me  go,  I  say!  Well, 
now,  I  will  tell  you  that  as  I  came  here  this  morn- 
ing I  saw  my  father-in-law  going  down  into  the 
cutting  on  the  left  of  the  chateau." 

"Had  he  his  axe?"  demanded  Ravoux. 

"Why,  yes,  he  had  it!" 

"He  has  hired  himself  all  alone!  The  traitor!" 
cried  Tournabien.  "Let  us  go  and  take  him 
away  from  his  work !  Halloa,  comrades !  Who  is 
coming  to  take  Cloquet  away?" 

Tournabien  had  shouted  at  the  top  of  his  lungs, 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    103 

making  a  speaking  trumpet  of  his  two  hands. 
Out  from  the  shelter  of  the  cords  of  firewood,  or 
from  behind  piles  of  charcoal,  men  started  up. 
Some  only  looked  in  the  direction  of  the  voice. 
Others  came  running  toward  them,  leaping  over 
fallen  branches.  The  wood-cutters  around  Ra- 
voux  gesticulated  and  jostled  each  other,  some 
wanting  to  go  down  to  Fonteneilles,  others  not. 
The  president,  with  his  face  pale  with  emotion 
over  his  black  beard,  tried  to  stop  Tournabien, 
Supiat,  and  Lampriere,  the  three  most  violent. 
Clenched  fists  were  raised  against  him,  but  that 
did  not  trouble  him.  With  his  two  hairy  hands 
he  held  the  strongest  of  the  fanatics  by  the  arm 
and  struggled  with  him. 

"You  must  listen  to  me,  Tournabien!" 

"No,  I  am  going!    Down  with  the  traitors!" 

"Do  not  go,  I  say!  Gilbert  has  the  right  to 
work!" 

"Not  all  alone!" 

"Yes,  indeed,  all  alone,  since  he  has  been  hired 
by  the  proprietor.  That  is  recognized  by  every- 
body." 

"I  don't  care!  To  the  woods  of  Fonteneilles, 
comrades!  To  the  hunt!" 

Tournabien  tore  himself  away.  A  band  of 
wood-cutters,  some  with  cudgels,  others  with 
axes,  came  running  up.  They  did  not  stop  to 
argue  with  Ravoux,  nor  to  listen  to  the  explana- 
tions of  Tournabien.  There  was  something  to  do 
and  that  "amused"  them.  They  started.  With 
one  impulse  they  broke  through  the  group  around 
Ravoux,  carrying  along  with  them  all  the  worst 


104    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

ones  and  some  of  the  moderates.  Another  little 
group,  crossing  the  clearing  obliquely,  joined  the 
crowd  that  came  down.  One  of  the  wood-cutters 
who  was  at  the  head  of  the  column  drew  a  bugle 
from  his  bag  and  sounded  a  call.  They;  began  to 
run,  and,  like  a  band  of  wild  boars,  plunged  into 
the  underwood  and  disappeared.  Ravoux,  furi- 
ous, hesitated  whether  to  run  after  them  or  not. 
His  lips  trembled.  He  thought  of  the  distance 
and  heard  the  cries  and  the  bugle  call.  He  was 
afraid  of  entirely  ruining  his  prestige,  which  was 
already  lessened. 

"What  is  the  use?"  he  cried.  "I  can  do  noth- 
ing there!" 

Picking  up  the  sheet  of  manuscript  which  had 
fallen  to  the  ground  during  the  struggle,  he  re- 
sumed his  place  in  the  cutting  he  had  opened  in 
the  wood.  But  after  a  few  strokes  of  the  axe  he 
stopped  and  listened.  The  men  who  had  re- 
mained near  him,  and  especially  Lureux,  did  the 
same.  The  wind  was  very  light.  The  twenty 
wood-cutters  who  had  dashed  off  on  the  hunt  for 
Cloquet,  took  precautions,  and  sang  less  loudly 
as  they  drew  near  the  preserves  of  the  chateau, 
for  the  noise  of  their  voices  became  like  that  of  a 
band  of  singers,  a  little  the  worse  for  wine,  who 
do  not  all  finish  the  song  they  begin. 

Gilbert  had  worked  since  morning.  At  half 
past  eleven,  he  had  gone  home  to  warm  his  bowl 
of  soup.  Then  he  had  returned  to  the  cutting, 
a  fine  underwood,  thick,  full,  overflowing,  on  the 
skirts  of  the  forest.  Joyous  at  feeling  himself 
alone  and  master  of  a  cutting  for  fifteen  days,  he 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    105 

had  thrown  down,  with  great  blows,  pieces  of 
beech,  birch,  aspen,  and  even  oak,  for  there  was 
to  be  no  stripping  of  bark,  Monsieur  de  Meximieu 
had  said,  as  everything  was  to  be  burned,  either 
in  fagots  or  in  firewood. 

He  had  tossed  his  jacket  upon  the  first  fagots  at 
the  beginning  of  the  long,  bushy  pile  which  rep- 
resented the  result  of  his  half-day's  work,  and  he 
was  going  straight  on,  lengthening  the  opening 
which  he  had  made,  not  entirely  upon  the  "  broad- 
side" of  the  forest,  but  in  a  line  parallel  to  the 
meadows  of  Fonteneilles  and  some  fifteen  yards 
away. 

He  was  in  good  condition,  and  felt  that  his 
muscles  were  supple.  With  one  stroke  he  cut 
through  twenty  years  of  growth;  he  was  so  alive 
that  he  forgot  the  cares  of  life.  Every  now  and 
then  he  straightened  himself  up,  let  his  axe  slip 
down  by  his  foot,  till  the  blade  cut  the  earth,  while 
the  end  of  the  handle,  weighted  by  its  thick  band 
of  iron,  drove  into  the  moss  and  held  the  foot  up- 
right. Then,  raising  his  left  arm,  with  the  sleeve 
of  his  shirt  he  wiped  the  perspiration  from  his 
face  and  forehead,  and  took  two  or  three  long 
breaths,  laughing  out  loud.  During  one  of  these 
pauses  he  saw,  through  the  thicket,  Tournabien 
and  Lampriere  and  their  companions,  who  were 
picking  their  way  along  in  single  file,  at  regular 
distances,  like  beaters  in  the  chase.  He  under- 
stood at  once  what  it  meant,  for  he,  too,  had  helped 
to  take  non-union  workmen  away  from  the  forest 
cuttings.  But  now  his  case  was  different. 

"What  are  you  doing  there?"  demanded  Tour- 


106    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

nabien,  stopping  on  the  other  side  of  the  barri- 
cade formed  by  the  felled  wood. 

"Why  have  you  deserted  your  comrades?" 
said  Lampriere,  whose  moustaches  were  the  only 
pale  spots  on  his  face,  reddened  by  the  race  and 
by  anger. 

He  stopped  a  little  to  the  left  of  Tournabien. 
Meanwhile  the  other  wood-cutters  went  to  the 
other  side  of  the  wood  pile,  completely  surround- 
ing Gilbert.  But  they  kept  at  a  distance.  And  it 
was  Supiat  who  advanced  straight  in  front  of  the 
wood-cutter  and  said: 

"We  have  come  to  take  you  away;  you  under- 
stand? Throw  down  your  axe  and  return  to  the 
wood  yard.  And  then,  to-morrow,  we  will  all 
come  back  here  with  you  to  do  the  work." 

"That  remains  to  be  seen/'  said  Gilbert,  slip- 
ping his  hand  a  little  lower  down  on  the  handle  of 
his  axe. 

"Who  has  hired  you  all  alone?" 

"Meximieu.  He  has  the  right  to  do  so.  And 
I  to  accept." 

"You  know  very  well,"  said  Supiat,  "that 
when  a  cutting  is  engaged  it  is  open  to  all. 
Any  one  may  come  who  chooses." 

"Yes,  when  a  wood  merchant  buys  it.  But 
when  the  owner  keeps  it,  he  does  what  he  chooses. 
That  has  always  been  so." 

"Well,  anyway!  We  are  going  to  change  all 
that,  Gilbert!  And  you  are  going  to  trot  out  of 
this  in  front  of  us,  until  we  all  return  here  together." 

"Tournabien  is  right,"  cried  the  others.  "Down 
with  the  traitor!" 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    107 

"I  am  in  my  right.    Do  not  come  any  nearer!" 

Some  of  the  men  came  forward  and  there  was 
a  noise  of  rustling  leaves  and  broken  branches  in 
the  rear  and  on  the  side.  Supiat  had  crouched 
close  to  the  ground  like  the  agile  brute  that  he 
was;  he  threw  himself  forward,  trying  to  seize  the 
axe  or  the  legs  of  Gilbert,  who  did  not  recoil  but 
raised  his  heavy  blade.  A  flash  cut  the  air  above 
him;  cries  rose  on  every  side  and  stampings  like 
the  charging  of  horses;  the  axe,  released  volun- 
tarily or  not,  in  the  middle  of  its  course,  flew  above 
the  back  of  Supiat  and  rebounded  on  the  cut 
branches.  In  the  midst  of  threatening  fists  and 
waving  arms,  Gilbert,  his  legs  pulled  forward  by 
his  adversaries,  was  thrown  down  backward,  like 
a  tree  sawed  close  to  the  ground.  Then  ten  men 
threw  themselves  upon  the  fallen  man. 

"Death  to  the  traitor!  Assassin!  Take  that! 
There,  and  that!" 

They  fought  each  other  to  strike  Gilbert  better. 
Growlings  of  rage  and  of  pain  rose  from  this 
crawling  mass,  hemmed  in  by  the  other  men  who, 
bending  forward,  ready  to  rush  in,  howling  with 
rage,  their  fists  clenched,  eyes  furious,  waited  like 
a  pack  of  hounds  who  cannot  reach  the  hunted 
creature  fastened  down  by  the  bravest  of  the  pack. 

Then  a  voice  cried: 

"Stand  off,  cowards!    Let  him  go!" 

In  a  second  the  heap  broke  apart.  The  human 
ball  unwound.  A  motionless  body  remained 
stretched  on  the  ground. 

"It  wasn't  me,  Monsieur  Michel!  It  wasn't 
me !  He  tried  to  kill  me ! " 


108    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

Supiat  advanced  to  meet  the  Comte  de  Mexi- 
mieu. 

The  others  had  already  reformed  the  circle,  at 
a  distance,  and,  recoiling  slowly,  enlarged  it.  Mi- 
chel de  Meximieu  ran  forward,  pushing  aside  the 
branches.  He  was  unarmed  and  dressed  in  his 
morning  suit  of  blue  serge.  As  he  ran  he 
counted  and  tried  to  recognize  the  wood-cutters 
who  buried  themselves  in  the  background  and 
disappeared  behind  the  underbrush.  The  young 
man,  pale,  exhausted  by  his  effort,  slackened  his 
pace  as  he  crossed  the  cutting  which  had  been 
barely  opened,  and,  thrusting  aside  Supiat  who 
continued  to  protest,  he  knelt  down  by  Gilbert. 
The  face  of  the  wood-cutter  was  covered  with 
blood,  his  eyes  were  open  but  fixed. 

" Gilbert!    Do  you  hear  me?" 

There  was  no  reply.  His  waistcoat  was  in  bits, 
his  shirt  torn,  stained  with  mud  and  red  in  places. 

Michel  turned  toward  Supiat  who  stood  at  a 
distance,  with  a  regretful  expression.  All  the 
others  had  disappeared.  The  sun  was  playing  with 
the  shadows,  and  the  wind. 

"Help  me,  Supiat!   We  must  carry  him." 

They  lifted  him,  Michel  by  the  shoulders  and 
Supiat  by  the  feet.  His  head  hung  down  and  a 
red  stream  flowed  from  his  lips  down  upon  his 
tawny,  tangled  beard. 

It  took  half  an  hour  to  carry  Gilbert  to  Pas-du- 
Loup,  which  was  not  really  so  far  away.  But  he 
was  heavy  and  the  woods  were  dense. 

It  was  an  hour  after  nightfall;   the  physician, 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    109 

summoned  in  haste  from  Corbigny,  had  just  left 
the  house  of  Pas-du-Loup.  A  careful  and  minute 
examination  of  the  wounded  man  had  revealed, 
besides  very  severe  bruises  over  the  whole  body, 
a  fractured  rib.  "Three  weeks  of  rest,"  the  doctor 
had  said,  "and  you  will  be  able  to  take  up  your 
axe  again,  my  good  fellow!"  Gilbert  had  been 
unconscious  nearly  an  hour,  but  now  life  had  come 
back  to  his  eyes.  He  spoke,  he  even  tried  to 
laugh,  which  is  an  expression  of  endurance  among 
the  poor.  Only,  it  would  have  been  hard  to  recog- 
nize the  regular  features  of  Gilbert  Cloquet  in  the 
swollen  and  violet-coloured  mass  of  flesh  beneath 
the  linen  bandages  which  hid  his  forehead.  In  the 
light  of  the  little  lamp  placed  on  the  mantel-piece 
his  blue  eyes  moved  slowly  between  his  eyelids, 
swollen  by  past  weeping.  They  watched  the 
door  through  which  Michel  de  Meximieu,  with 
the  doctor,  had  withdrawn  a  moment  before  and 
which  the  wind  shook,  as  if  a  hand  tapped  it 
at  regular  intervals,  and  they  watched  Mere 
Justamond,  who  had  put  on  a  coarse  linen  apron 
to  care  for  her  "patient,"  and  having  placed  near 
the  fire  a  row  of  pots  of  different  sizes,  in  which 
some  of  the  last  Summer's  herbs  were  brewing, 
had  sunk  down  in  a  low  chair,  at  the  foot  of  the 
bed  and  was  thinking,  with  her  head  resting  on  her 
hands;  the  eyes  of  the  wounded  man  gazed  also 
into  the  empty  space  between  the  floor  and  the 
beams,  dreamy,  clear,  and  sorrowful. 

"Mere  Justamond,  has  not  Ravoux  come  home 
yet?  It  has  been  night  now  for  at  least  an  hour." 

"I  don't  know." 


110    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

"I  would  like  to  know.    He  is  not  usually  late." 

"The  wicked  rascal!  After  what  he  has  done 
to  you,  why  should  you  trouble  yourself  about 
him?  He  frightens  me,  with  his  white  face  and 
his  black  beard.  However,  I  will  go  and  see,  if 
you  want  me  to.  It  is  not  far  from  your  house  to 
his." 

As  she  rose  from  her  chair  the  door  was  un- 
latched by  a  nervous  hand  and  Ravoux  entered. 
He  had  just  come  from  the  forest  and  had  only 
stopped  to  lay  down  his  axe  at  the  door  of  his 
house.  He  took  off  his  cap  when  he  saw  his  com- 
rade stretched  on  the  bed  and  came  swiftly  to 
the  place  which  Mere  Justamond  had  just  left. 
His  face,  always  nervous  and  feverish,  contracted 
as  he  leaned  forward,  and  his  eyes  met  Gilbert's. 

"Well,  old  man,  have  they  hurt  you?" 

"Only  the  bark  was  touched,"  replied  Gilbert, 
"the  heart  is  sound." 

"So  much  the  better,  old  fellow!  But  all  the 
same,  they  hit  hard!" 

The  woman  had  retreated  to  the  corner  of  the 
room,  and  she  stayed  there,  motionless,  as  if 
afraid  of  being  seen.  The  two  men,  accustomed 
to  read  each  other's  faces,  did  not  speak  for  sev- 
eral minutes.  Then  the  president  of  the  "Union 
of  the  wood-cutters  and  allied  industries  of  Fon- 
teneilles"  drew  a  little  package,  wrapped  in  a 
newspaper,  from  the  pocket  of  his  waistcoat.  He 
placed  it  on  the  covering  by  Gilbert's  knees,  and 
unrolled  it  with  care.  When  the  paper  was 
opened  some  pieces  of  silver  and  copper  coin  fell 
in  a  line  on  the  bed. 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    111 

"There!  When  the  day's  work  was  done  a 
corner  of  the  cutting  was  left  which  had  been  as- 
signed to  no  one.  So,  in  place  of  coming  home  at 
five  o'clock,  I  set  myself  with  three  comrades  to 
do  your  half-day's  work.  And  that  is  about  the 
price  that  you  would  have  earned." 

Gilbert  accepted  the  money  with  a  gesture. 

"Was  Supiat  one  of  them?" 

"No,  but  Lampriere  and  two  others,  who  are 
friends  of  mine.  Tell  me,  Cloquet,  you  are  not 
going  to  lodge  a  complaint?" 

To  lodge  a  complaint?  With  all  the  expense 
and  the  uncertainty  of  witnesses  besides  the  cer- 
tainty of  vengeance  later?  And  to  go  back  on  all 
the  efforts  which  the  wood-cutter  had  made  to 
combine  the  men  who  had  to-day  turned  against 
him!  And  also,  without  Gilbert's  being  con- 
scious of  it,  the  habit  of  forgiving  offences  was 
in  his  blood,  in  that  blood  which  was  drying  on 
his  face  and  his  chest.  Not  for  one  moment  had 
he  thought  of  lodging  a  complaint. 

Slowly  he  turned  his  suffering  head  upon  his 
pillow  with  a  gesture:  "You  have  nothing  to  fear. 
I  shall  not  call  on  the  judge." 

Ravoux's  face  softened  a  little  and  into  his 
look  there  came  a  kind  of  thanks  and  tenderness. 
He  thanked  him  for  the  cause,  for  the  party, 
though  he  said  nothing,  for  his  ordinary  assurance 
had  quite  abandoned  him.  He  well  knew  that 
the  members  of  the  Union  were  wrong  in  demand- 
ing the  sharing  of  the  cutting  with  Gilbert;  that 
their  claim  was  based  only  on  force.  He  was 
ashamed  and  he  remembered  that  it  was  the 


112    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

reading  of  the  appeal  that  had  preceded  and 
aroused  the  attack  on  Gilbert.  But  of  that  he 
did  not  want  to  speak. 

Gilbert  was  suffering,  and  three  times  the  pain 
checked  the  words  on  his  lips.  At  last  he  spoke 
with  the  manner  of  one  to  whom  misfortune  and 
pardon  give  authority: 

"You  believe  yourself  to  be  their  head,  and  you 
are  not,  Ravoux.  You  have  not  much  authority. 
You  have  to  let  them  do  as  they  choose  because 
they  are  the  strongest. " 

" I  know  it." 

"As  for  them,  most  of  them  have  not,  like  you, 
their  desires  turned  toward  their  work;  they  only 
wish  for  disorder  and  pillage;  since  I  have  known 
them,  they  have  grown  worse. " 

"Do  not  say  that,  Cloquet;  our  affairs  are  going 
well;  we  have  made  a  great  step  in  advance." 

"Possibly,  Ravoux,  but  their  hearts  grow 
worse.  The  feeling  of  Brotherhood  has  not  come. 
I  have  waited  for  it. " 

Ravoux  jumped  at  the  theme  which  was  offered 
to  him.  For  a  moment  he  forgot  the  wounded 
man.  He  began  the  stilted  phrases  of  the  reunions. 

"You  only  see  the  imperfections  of  proletarian 
organization!  That  is  so  simple!  So  easily  said! 
But  we  must  make  allowances  for  new  move- 
ments, my  friend!  The  future  will  teach  the 
severity  of  law  to  these  men,  who  now  know 
nothing;  the  future  will  make  them  free,  by  mak- 
ing them  intelligent." 

Gilbert  stopped  him,  raising  his  arm. 

"Do  not  rant,  Ravoux!    You  always  talk  of 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    113 

the  future  when  you  are  embarrassed.  But  I  tell 
you  that  they  will  never  learn  much  if  they  have 
not  yet  learned  anything.  Is  it  the  school-teacher 
who  will  teach  them  justice?  They  have  already 
passed  through  his  hands.  Will  it  be  the  priest? 
Every  one  knows  that  the  day  of  the  priest  has 
gone  by !  Will  it  be  the  newspaper?  They  read  it 
every  day.  Will  it  be  you,  perhaps?  Come,  now!" 

Gilbert  rose  in  bed  in  spite  of  his  pain,  and 
his  voice  grew  feeble  and  whispering. 

"I  will  tell  you  what  worries  me,  Ravoux,  what 
I  think  about  our  comrades.  You  can  let  me  do 
that  at  least,  since  I  am  not  going  to  lodge  a 
complaint.  Well !  They  have  not  enough  to  live 
on." 

'That  is  true!" 

"Nor  you,  either!    Not  enough  to  live  on." 

Ravoux  believed  that  Gilbert  was  delirious  and 
that  he  was  talking  of  daily  bread.  But  Gilbert 
was  speaking  of  souls  and  spirits  without  the 
means  of  nourishment  or  the  provision  for  life. 
They  misunderstood  each  other. 

The  visitor  took  advantage  of  a  moment  when 
the  wounded  man  closed  his  eyes  to  go  out,  mak- 
ing as  little  noise  as  possible  with  his  heavy  sa- 
bots. Mere  Justamond  rekindled  the  fire,  cooked 
and  sugared  and  filtered  her  teas,  and  with  ma- 
ternal kindliness  gave  the  infallible  remedy  to  her 
neighbour,  exhausted  and  incapable  of  sleep. 

Evening  was  slowly  growing  into  the  true  night 
when  men  abandon  the  earth  to  darkness.  Some 
children  called  and  came  to  knock  at  the  door. 
Mere  Justamond  could  hear  them,  even  when  they 


114    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

did  nothing  but  think  as  they  sat  grouped  around 
the  fire,  " Mother  is  not  here!  How  long  she 
stays  at  Cloquet 's!" 

When  she  was  sure  that  she  had  done  her  whole 
duty  as  nurse,  she  watched  for  some  moments 
the  wounded  man  who  was  breathing  with  diffi- 
culty on  account  of  his  broken  rib  and  the  band- 
age on  his  chest.  She  thought  that  he  was  asleep 
because  he  had  closed  his  eyes  and  she  went  out, 
after  turning  down  the  lamp. 

Gilbert  remained  alone.  He  was  not  asleep. 
He  was  thinking  of  his  wife  who  had  only  half 
trained  their  child;  and  of  Marie,  who  had  shown 
herself  so  ungrateful  that  very  morning  and 
whom  he  had  forbidden  them  to  send  for,  and  of 
his  comrades  who  had  beaten  him,  their  old  leader, 
who  had  been  their  friend  from  the  beginning,  and 
he  whispered  low,  between  the  coarse  wrinkled 
sheets  which  were  divided  in  great  folds  like 
cracks  in  the  ice  melting  hi  a  meadow. 

"No!    They  have  not  enough  to  live  on!" 

A  space  of  time  which  he  could  not  measure 
passed.  A  soft,  young  voice  came  through  the 
crack  of  the  door.  The  forest  was  silent  and  the 
words  sounded  clearly.  The  passer-by  had  seen 
the  light  through  the  crannies  of  the  shutter. 

"  Monsieur  Cloquet,  if  you  are  not  sleeping,  how 
do  you  feel?" 

"  Badly,  my  boy.  Who  is  it  that  asks?  You 
can  come  in." 

The  voice  still  lower  replied : 

"No,  I  won't  come  in  because  of  Ravoux.  But 
I  am  on  your  side,  Monsieur  Cloquet." 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    115 

The  footsteps  withdrew  lightly  and  were  lost  in 
the  night. 

Gilbert  thought  that  probably  it  was  the  son  of 
Mehaut,  the  old  tile-maker,  a  young  man  with  a 
good  heart,  which  showed  in  his  face;  unless  it 
were  Etienne  Justamond,  a  fine,  pleasant-spoken 
lad  who  always  greeted  him  in  the  evening  like  a 
friend. 

Or  it  might  even  have  been  Jean- Jean,  the  man 
who  had  come  whistling  down  from  the  forest  of 
Montreuillon.  The  wounded  man  could  not  be 
sure.  But  however  small  the  consolation  was,  it 
soothed  him.  Gilbert  soon  slept  and  the  night 
passed. 


IV. 


VAUCREUSE. 

AT  the  end  of  March  the  sun  already  has  power 
when  the  fog  is  driven  away.  The  mist  had  gone 
before  mid-day.  Two  o'clock  had  just  struck. 
Upon  the  road  leading  from  Fonteneilles  to  Crux- 
la- Ville,  which  first  goes  up  and  then  down,  to 
mount  again  in  a  gentle  slope  the  great  curve  of 
land  crowned  by  the  forest  of  Troncay  and  that  of 
Crux,  the  sorrel  mare  harnessed  to  the  victoria  of 
Michel  de  Meximieu  trotted  quickly,  excited  by 
the  odour  of  the  Spring.  The  sap  was  stirring  in 
the  still  unopened  buds  of  the  beeches  and  oaks, 
and  gave  a  purple  glow  to  the  thickets  which 
stretch  away  on  the  left  toward  La  Vigie,  and 
which,  like  the  ocean,  have  no  limit  but  the  hori- 
zon. The  General  and  his  son,  seated  side  by  side, 
their  heads  thrown  back  and  bathed  in  the  soft 
air  of  the  first  Spring,  were  silent,  each  dreaming 
his  own  dream,  and  following  with  his  eyes  the 
flocks  of  linnets  rising  from  the  edge  of  the  road, 
or  the  busy  magpies  carrying  in  their  beaks  the 
framework  of  their  nest.  They  were  going  to  call 
on  the  Jacquemins  at  Vaucreuse.  Soon  the  land- 
scape changed,  as  they  entered  the  valley  of  the 
Aron,  with  its  vast  meadows  and  poplar  trees, 
solitude  and  richness  on  the  two  sides  of  a  stream. 

116 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    117 

Down  the  valley  could  be  seen  the  thick  grass 
already  ruffled  by  the  wind,  stretching  back  to  the 
rocky  land  where  the  river  started,  and  in  front  to 
where  the  blue  haze,  mingling  together  grass,  river 
and  trees,  turns  with  them  to  rejoin  the  canal  of 
Nivernais. 

The  carriage,  having  left  the  main  road,  fol- 
lowed a  track  parallel  to  the  Aron  and  then  went 
down  a  long  avenue  through  the  middle  of  the 
meadows.  It  stopped  before  a  white  chateau  of 
the  eighteenth  century,  not  imposing  like  that  of 
Fonteneilles.  Vaucreuse  had  in  front  a  large 
flight  of  steps  shaped  like  a  horseshoe,  a  raised 
ground  floor,  with  one  story  above  it  and  a  frieze  and 
roofs  of  slate  pierced  by  only  two  dormer  windows. 
On  the  right  side  a  low  pavilion,  with  a  heavy  man- 
sard roof,  recalled  the  old  chateau  which  the  new 
Vaucreuse  had  replaced  in  1760. 

It  was  to  this  family  estate  that  Lieutenant 
Jacquemin  had  retired,  when,  in  1891,  he  had  re- 
signed from  the  army.  He  was  thirty-two  years 
old  and  he  brought  with  him  to  Vaucreuse  his 
wife  and  a  little  four-year-old  daughter,  Antoi- 
nette. Shortly  after  this,  and  when  he  had  scarcely 
recovered  from  the  terrible  shock  of  his  broken 
career,  he  lost  his  wife,  who  died  from  an  attack  of 
pneumonia  in  the  midst  of  her  youth  and  beauty. 
Nothing  was  left  to  him  but  the  child.  Fortu- 
nately the  child  was  one  of  those  beings  who  are 
natural  comforters,  who  help  the  world  to  bear 
its  suffering,  who  understand  sorrow  that  they 
have  not  experienced,  who  always  feel  its  pres- 
ence, and  though  unable  to  remove  it,  command 


118    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

and  subdue  it  under  their  charm,  like  a  wild  beast 
whose  cruelty  has  no  longer  power  in  their  pres- 
ence. Antoinette  had  saved  her  father  from 
despair  in  his  great  trials.  As  she  grew  up,  she  had 
become  the  confidante,  the  friend,  even  the  guide 
of  this  man  who  had  preserved  all  the  vigour  and 
apparently  all  the  energy  of  his  earlier  years,  but 
whose  mind  wandered  as  soon  as  anything  re- 
called to  him  the  two  joys  he  had  lost:  his  young 
wife  who  had  died  or  the  army  he  had  given  up. 
Antoinette  alone  could  touch  these  memories. 
She  knew  the  way  to  do  it.  But  no  stranger 
must  make  any  allusion  to  the  sorrowful  past. 
She  guarded  him  from  it,  she  was  always  there 
to  make  a  sign:  "Be  quiet!  Do  not  talk  of  these 
things !"  She  would  turn  the  conversation  or, 
rather,  she  would  throw  herself  into  it,  guarding 
her  father,  keeping  him  out  of  the  discussion 
with  an  anxious,  distrustful  and  almost  maternal 
tenderness. 

The  carriage  stopped  before  the  steps  of  the 
chateau  of  Vaucreuse.  Monsieur  de  Meximieu 
and  Michel  were  kept  waiting  a  moment  in  the 
large  round  room,  hung  with  rose-coloured  cre- 
tonne, lighted  by  the  three  huge  windows  opening 
on  the  terrace. 

"I  am  really  agitated,  if  you  will  believe  it, 
Michel,  at  the  thought  of  seeing  Jacquemin  again ! 
Fifteen  years!  It  is  fifteen  years  ago  that  he  was 
under  my  command,  in  the  6th  Cuirassiers,  at 
Cambray.  A  man  of  iron  will,  with  cursed  ideas 
of  preaching  morality  to  the  soldier,  of  apostle- 
ship,  as  he  termed  it,  whose  wings  I  had  to  clip, 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    119 

but  a  good  officer,  severe  for  himself,  kind  to  his 
men,  firm  on  his  horse,  firm  every  way.  He  must 
have  changed  physically." 

"I  do  not  believe  so.    A  trifle  stouter,  perhaps." 

"Oh,  yes,  country  life.  Do  you  think  that  he 
still  holds  it  against  me  for  having  interrupted  his 
career?  For,  after  all,  it  was  I  who,  in  the  course 
of  duty,  in  spite  of  myself  did  cause  his  resigna- 
tion. He  felt  that  he  could  not  remain.  I  only 
asked  him  to  yield." 

The  General  walked  about,  looking  at  himself 
in  the  narrow  mirrors  which  separated  the  panels 
of  light  cretonne. 

The  door  in  the  rear  opened.  A  tall,  fair  man 
entered,  walking  rapidly.  He  walked  across  the 
room  and  shook  hands,  bowing  slightly. 

"General,  I  am  embarrassed.  You  see  me  in 
jacket  and  boots.  I  have  just  come  in  from  xan 
inspection  of  my  meadows  near  the  mouth." 

"Yes,  yes,  'the  mouth/  the  local  term,  I  re- 
member. How  are  you,  Jacquemin!  How  are 
you!  I  am  glad  to  see  you  again." 

He  held  the  hand  of  his  officer  turned  land- 
owner. He  made  him  turn  half  round  to  get  him 
in  the  full  light.  He  was  a  little  pale.  He  gazed, 
bending  forward  with  his  back  to  the  windows, 
into  the  broad  face  of  Monsieur  Jacquemin,  now 
flushed  with  emotion. 

"It  is  indeed  the  same  man!  Short  hair,  black 
eyes  without  fear  and  without  reproach,  and 
hooked  nose,  and  moustache  cut  short.  Not 
many  gray  hairs ;  you  have  not  changed,  Jacque- 
min; a  little  extra  flesh,  perhaps,  like  your  cattle 


120    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

for  market.  Ah!  Pardon,  Mademoiselle,  I  did 
not  see  you."  Monsieur  de  Meximieu  dropped 
the  hand  of  his  host  and  greeted  cordially  Antoi- 
nette Jacquemin,  who  had  followed  her  father  and 
whom  only  Michel  had  noticed.  The  young  peo- 
ple had  already  spoken  to  each  other.  The 
General's  eye  of  command  suddenly  became  the 
eye  of  the  connoisseur,  which,  half  closed,  looked 
her  all  over,  returning  to  the  same  points  several 
times.  An  unspoiled  youth,  a  proud  and  noble 
face,  the  hair  of  two  shades  of  gold — that  Michel 
had  spoken  of — a  slender  figure,  and  so  much 
natural  poise. 

"I  should  not  have  been  surprised  I  did  not 
at  once  remember  but  Mademoiselle  has  just  re- 
minded me  that  your  ancestors  were  among  the 
models  of  Latour.  You  belong  to  a  very  old 
family;  why  the  deuce  did  you  drop  the  'de,' 
Jacquemin?" 

"My  father  did  it,  and  I  kept  it  up.  He  be- 
lieved that  the  peasants  here  would  like  him 
better  if  he  called  himself  just  simply  Monsieur 
Jacquemin." 

"And  did  it  help  him  any?" 

"No.  When  he  offered  himself  for  election  to 
the  General  Council,  he  was  defeated  as  a  "bour- 
geois," to  cries  of:  'Down  with  capitalism!'  In- 
stead of  being  defeated  as  a  noble,  to  the  cry  of 
'Down  with  the  tithes!'  That  is  all." 

"You  must  resemble  him?" 

"Very  much.  But  pray  be  seated,  General. 
There,  the  large  arm-chair?  No?  You  prefer  the 
straight  chair?  That  is  the  habit  of  the  saddle. " 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    121 

" Monsieur  Jacquemin  is  mistaken,"  inter- 
rupted Michel.  "His  father  left  a  widely  known 
reputation  as  an  agriculturist,  in  all  Nievre,  and, 
whatever  he  may  say,  many  true  friendships 
among  the  people  of  the  country.  They  knew 
him  to  be  just  and  helpful,  and  they  loved  him. 
Elections  prove  nothing." 

"Of  course!  Whatever  disagrees  with  your 
humanitarian  dreams  can  prove  nothing.  Just 
imagine,  Jacquemin,  my  son  defended,  a  fort- 
night ago,  the  strikers  who  were  howling  the  In- 
ternationale before  me — before  me!" 

"Excuse  me,  I  was  only  explaining." 

The  General  had  turned  toward  the  back  of  the 
room  where  Michel  and  Antoinette  Jacquemin 
were  sitting  on  a  sofa.  It  was  a  young  voice  that 
answered  him: 

"General,  do  you  want  to  know  what  I  think 
of  our  wood-cutters?" 

"What,  Mademoiselle?" 

"They  seem  to  me  to  be  orphans  without  either 
father  o,r  mother;  no  father  to  guide  them. " 

"That  does  not  concern  us." 

"And  no  mother  to  love  them." 

"You  would  take  that  place,  perhaps?" 

The  proud  little  head  bent  forward,  her  eyes 
shone. 

"Why,  yes,  I  love  them.  I  could  go  all  alone 
to  the  very  end  of  those  woods  yonder,  beyond  the 
river  and  the  hill  which  you  see  through  the  win- 
dow. There  would  not  be  a  single  man  who 
would  insult  me,  and  I  am  sure  there  would  be 
some  to  defend  me." 


122    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

"Ah,  Mademoiselle,  don't  imagine  that  I  am 
going  to  contradict  you!  To  be  pretty,  and 
eighteen  years  old,  those  are  strong  reasons  for 
optimism.  I  have  never  had  the  first,  and  I  no 
longer  have  the  second.  You  must  forgive  me. 
And  you  are  satisfied  with  your  establishment  at 
Vaucreuse,  Jacquemin?" 

The  "gentleman  farmer"  had  crossed  his  legs 
and  looked  silently  at  his  former  superior  officer. 
Painful  memories  came  back  to  him.  His  expres- 
sion, ordinarily  firm  and  cold,  became  hard.  The 
General  saw  it  and  put  himself  on  his  guard,  his 
body  erect,  his  head  upright,  his  black  moustache 
lifted  by  the  half  smile  which  Michel  and  Mon- 
sieur Jacquemin  both  knew. 

"You  are  contented?" 

"One  is  never  entirely  contented." 

"I  hear  that  you  have  transformed  the  valley 
although  it  was  naturally  very  fertile. " 

"That  is  partly  true."' 

"That  the  cattle  of  Vaucreuse  takes  prizes  at 
Villette." 

"In  other  places,  too." 

"And,  finally,  that  you  make  large  profits." 

"I  am  not  the  only  one  who  does  that." 

"I  congratulate  you.  Fonteneilles  does  not 
do  that  yet." 

"That  will  come,  General.  Your  son  is  beginning 
very  well.  Time  is  necessary.  You  see,  I  have 
fifteen  years  of  seniority." 

The  word  was  said  with  a  bitterness  which 
caused  the  Marquis  de  Meximieu  to  start  in  his 
seat.  The  old  wound  still  bled  and  Jacquemin 


was  suffering.  The  General,  leaning  toward  him, 
ready  either  to  rise  and  to  embrace  him,  or  to  be- 
come angry  if  he  had  cause,  asked : 

"What  do  you  mean?  Do  you  regret  the  regi- 
ment? Truly,  what  the  army  has  become,  ought 
to  lessen  any  regrets.  But,  in  any  case,  what  have 
you  to  reproach  me  with?  Could  I  have  done  any- 
thing else?  Did  I  not  do  my  duty? " 

Before  Monsieur  Jacquemin  had  time  to  reply, 
a  quick  hand,  from  the  depth  of  the  drawing- 
room,  made  a  gesture  of  denial. 

"No,  General!    It  was  my  father  who  did  his." 

Without  even  noticing  the  unusualness  and  al- 
most the  absurdity  of  discussing  a  military  ques- 
tion with  a  young  girl,  General  de  Meximieu 
changed  opponents.  He  was  offended.  He  made 
a  nervous  movement  of  his  fingers,  well  known  to 
all  the  officers  under  his  command. 

"You  speak  like  a  child,  Mademoiselle,  and  you 
do  not  know  the  facts.  I  will  explain  them  to 
you.  Your  father  was  the  ablest  of  my  lieuten- 
ants in  the  6th  Cuirassiers,  that  is  true;  the  most 
exact,  that  is  also  true ;  but  he  was  also  the  most 
obstinate  and  the  most  clerical  of  all.  He  pro- 
claimed before  every  one,  even  before  the  men, 
doctrines  on  which,  for  my  part,  I  set  the  same 
value  as  on  the  ideas  which  are  giving  us  trouble 
to-day." 

"But  they  are  just  the  opposite." 

"That  makes  no  difference  to  me.  They  were 
a  creed.  And  I  will  have  no  creeds  in  the  bar- 
racks; no  ideas,  that  do  not  belong  to  our  profes- 
sion, and  no  preaching  that  is  not  about  patriot- 


124    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

ism.  But  he  pretended  that  there  ought  never 
to  be  a  review  or  a  march  on  Sunday  morning,  so 
that  the  men  should  be  free  to  go  to  church.  He 
wanted  to  elevate  their  morals,  to  have  instruc- 
tive readings  and  lectures,  in  fact,  to  have  ths 
barracks  a  school!" 

"But  we  have  that  now,  have  we  not?" 

"Not  yet!  And  for  my  part,  I  do  not  command 
a  school,  I  command  soldiers.  I  do  not  ask  them 
to  be  saints  nor  to  be  of  my  opinion,  since  I  do  not 
tell  them  what  I  think.  I  demand  that  they  shall 
obey,  march  well,  and  never  be  afraid.  The  rest 
is  not  my  affair.  I  belong  to  the  old  army  myself, 
to  the  army  which  went  to  battle  because  it  was 
their  duty — which  suffered  hunger,  thirst,  heat, 
because  it  was  their  duty — their  duty,  do  you 
understand?  And  that  was  enough.  That  is 
why,  when  Lieutenant  Jacquemin,  without  my 
permission,  gave  a  lecture  to  the  cavalry  men  in 
the  training  school,  I  warned  him.  When  he  did 
it  a  second  time  outside  the  barracks,  but  after 
giving  notice  in  the  mess  room,  and  in  uniform, 
I  placed  him  under  arrest.  He  appealed.  The 
Minister  upheld  me.  I  had  the  regret  of  seeing 
Jacquemin  hand  in  his  resignation  and  leave  the 
army  when  he  was  only  thirty-two,  but  for  what 
I  did  I  have  never  felt  any  regret." 

"Well  but,  General,  you  must  have  regretted 
it  once,  at  least." 

"When?" 

"A  fortnight  ago.  When  you  were  indignant 
at  hearing  the  strikers  sing  the  Internationale." 

"Parbleu!  Was  it  not  an  outrage?" 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    125 

"  Perhaps  it  would  not  have  been  sung  if  the 
lectures  of  Lieutenant  Jacquemin  had  not  been 
forbidden  by  Colonel  de  Meximieu." 

' '  Antoinette !    General,  you  will  excuse. " 

"By  you,  who  believe  that  you  have  no  respon- 
sibility for  this  disturbance  of  the  men's  minds, 
who  should  cry  mea  culpa,  because — although  I 
am  only  a  child,  I  must  say  it  to  you — because  you 
and  the  others  have  discouraged  officers  like  my 
father." 

"Antoinette!" 

Michel  bent  toward  her  and  said  very  low: 

"I  beg  of  you,  Mademoiselle!" 

Mademoiselle  Jacquemin  stopped,  trembling 
with  indignation,  her  bosom  still  heaving  with  emo- 
tion. Her  pretty  face  lost  its  anger  very  quickly. 
She  turned  a  half  smile  to  Michel,  which  ex- 
pressed: "It  is  for  your  sake  that  I  stop  defending 
my  father  against  yours."  The  General  was  no 
longer  looking  at  her.  He  was  looking  at  Jacquemin 
who  lay  sunk  back  in  his  arm-chair,  his  arms  rigid, 
his  eyes  closed,  like  a  man  who  suffers  cruelly  and 
who  does  not  want  to  show  it.  Two  tears  ran 
down  from  his  eyes.  He  felt  them  suddenly,  hot  on 
his  cheeks,  and  raised  his  hand  to  his  face.  But 
this  hand,  all  wet,  General  de  Meximieu  seized 
and  the  two  men  found  themselves  on  their  feet 
facing  each  other. 

"Jacquemin,  I  have  not  ceased  to  regret  you 
for  a  day,  my  friend;  we  have  not  the  same  idea 
about  the  army.  I  belong  to  another  generation; 
but  my  esteem,  you  know,  my  affection,  my  admi- 
ration even,  has  not  changed!  Not  in  the  least!" 


126    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

They  still  looked  at  each  other  silently.  Their 
hands  fell  apart. 

"I  should  not  have  recalled  that  memory,  had 
I  been  as  clever  a  man  as  people  pretend,  for  I 
have  a  service  to  ask  of  you,  a  great  one." 

"So  much  the  better,  General;  if  I  can  do  it  for 
you." 

"You  can." 

"Then  speak!" 

Monsieur  de  Meximieu  looked  at  Michel  and 
Antoinette. 

"Let  us  go  outside,  if  you  are  willing;  the  chil- 
dren will  follow  us." 

The  gravel  on  the  terrace,  the  long,  sloping 
meadow,  the  blue  thread  of  the  Aron,  the 
grassy  hill  which  rose  beyond,  all  vibrated  with 
new  life  in  the  clear  light.  The  General  went  out 
first.  Half-way  down  the  steps  Antoinette  joined 
him  and,  bending  down,  said  very  low: 

"General,  you  will  forgive  me,  won't  you?  I 
was  hasty.  I  am  always  so  moved  by  that  story 
of  his  resignation,  which  we  speak  of  every 
day." 

"You  are  a  thoroughbred;  you  come  of  soldier's 
blood;  do  not  excuse  yourself,  it  pleased  me." 

She  smiled,  glancing  back  over  her  shoulder  so 
that  those  behind  might  see  that  all  was  over. 

"And  also,  General,  if  I  must  tell  you,  I  spoke 
because  he  cannot  speak  of  that  affair  before 
any  one  but  me;  it  hurts  him.  Come,  father,  I 
will  leave  you  to  talk  with  Monsieur  de  Meximieu. 
We  shall  take  the  path  of  the  Garenne,  shall  we 
not?" 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    127 

Along  the  raked  gravel  path,  distinct  as  a  fur- 
row between  meadows,  the  General  and  Monsieur 
Jacquemin  took  the  lead,  Monsieur  de  Meximieu 
on  the  right,  making  large  gestures,  questioning, 
bending  forward,  and  sometimes,  with  a  stroke  of 
the  cane,  taking  off  the  head  of  a  tuft  of  dande- 
lions growing  on  the  edge  of  the  path;  Monsieur 
Jacquemin,  shorter  than  he,  stout,  and  sparing  of 
his  gestures!  Only  from  time  to  time  one  saw  his 
square  head,  with  its  soft  hat,  which  nodded 
"  yes  "or  "no." 

Some  fifty  yards  behind,  Michel  was  question- 
ing little  Antoinette  Jacquemin,  whose  youth,  in 
the  midst  of  the  sunlight,  the  air,  and  the  grass, 
was  like  a  pastel  set  in  a  wide,  light  frame.  She 
had  neither  parasol  nor  cloak.  She  smiled  on  all 
things  because  of  the  soul  which  love  gives  them. 
She  pointed  them  out  to  Michel;  the  warren,  the 
great  clump  of  elms  and  oaks  in  front,  the  river, 
the  pond,  the  long  stretches  of  the  farm,  and  Mar- 
mantray  in  the  distance. 

"You  love  this  country  as  I  do,  do  you  not?" 

"  Deeply,  Mademoiselle." 

"I,  I  adore  its  meadows." 

"And  I  its  forests." 

"I  love  its  brightness." 

"And  I  its  solitude." 

•'Jeanne  who  laughs  and  Jean  who  weeps,  then? 
Are  you  really  Jean  who  weeps?" 

"Often  enough." 

"Here,  that  is  forbidden.  I  have  not  even  per- 
mission to  dream,  as  they  say  all  young  girls  do. 
Much  less  would  I  be  allowed  to  be  melancholy, 


128    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

even  if  I  were  tempted  to  be  so.  There  is  one  per- 
son at  Vaucreuse  who  has  the  right  to  be  sad  and 
he  would  feel  it  too  much.  It  is  my  duty  to  be 
joy,  distraction  and  forget  fulness.  I  am  the  pres- 
ent and  the  future  in  a  continual  fight  against 
the  past." 

"That  must  be  difficult." 

She  thought  a  minute  and  answered  seriously: 

"No;  like  everything  one  does  from  love,  it 
is  easy.  You  understand  what  I  am  trying  to 
say?  My  father,  if  he  were  alone,  would  have 
gloomy  thoughts.  His  regiment,  his  broken  career, 
business  cares,  memories.  I  interrupted  just  now 
a  conversation  between  your  father  and  mine.  I 
seemed  to  step  out  of  my  place.  You  thought 
so,  did  you  not?" 

"How  do  you  know?" 

"Well,  in  fact,  I  stayed  in  my  place.  My  work 
is  to  watch  over  old  memories.  I  prevent  them 
from  coming  and,  when  I  cannot  keep  them  off, 
I  discuss  them  and  chase  them  away. " 

She  sighed  and  she  lifted  her  head,  and  the  rays 
of  light  shimmered  on  her  hair  as  over  a  field  of 
waving  oats. 

"However,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  need  help 
sometimes.  Do  you  know  what  we  lack  in  our 
corner  of  Nievre?  Neighbours.  There  are  a  few 
chateaux,  but  the  owners  do  not  live  in  them. 
Two  or  three  months  is  the  longest  time  they  stay. 
They  have  only  the  time  in  the  country  to  love 
themselves,  but  to  really  care  for  it  and  to  be  loved 
by  it,  that  is  the  true  life.  They  never  have  it." 

"You  expressed  that  well!" 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    129 

"Do  you  think  so?  I  assure  you  that  I  have 
no  trouble  in  finding  the  definition  of  this  life 
which  is  ours  and  yours  also.  And  those  who  do 
not  live  in  this  way  are  of  no  use  to  anybody  or 
to  anything.  Why,  think  and  tell  me  if  you  do 
not  agree  with  me?  I  begin  to  think  that  my 
father  is  having  a  most  important  conversation 
with  Monsieur  de  Meximieu;  he  has  stopped  to 
argue  a  point.  I  know  it,  because  he  is  pulling  his 
moustache.  That  is  his  way  of  saying:  'There- 
fore, Monsieur ' ;  '  Consequently,  Monsieur.' ' 

"They  are  starting  on  again." 

"Yes,  but  here  he  is  again  turning  aside  and 
not  to  look  at  us;  he  is  pointing  to  the  forest, 
what  one  can  see  of  it,  just  a  few  tops  of  some 
oak  trees.  I  beg  your  pardon  if  I  am  indiscreet. 
I  am  only  a  girl,  but  I  have  already  all  the 
faults  which  I  shall  have  when  I  am  grown  up: 
can  you  tell  me  what  this  great  service  is  that 
Monsieur  de  Meximieu  is  asking  of  my  father?" 

"I  do  not  know  at  all,  Mademoiselle." 

"He  has  said  nothing  to  you!" 

"Unfortunately,  no." 

"Usually,  I  am  told  everything.  That  is  why 
it  vexes  me  to-day  that  I  do  not  know.  Oh, 
my  father  will  tell  me  the  whole  thing  this  even- 
ing. Yours  will  do  the  same  to  you,  I  am  sure. 
There !  They  are  taking  the  little  footpath  which 
turns  to  the  warren.  They  are  out  of  sight. 
But,  now  I  think  of  it,  Monsieur,  I  was  complain- 
ing because  we  have  no  neighbours;  you  may 
solve  that  difficulty." 

"And  how?" 


130    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

This  time  the  young  spontaneous  laugh,  quicker 
than  thought,  the  laugh  without  a  false  note,  rang 
out  joyously. 

"Why,  marry!  You  will  bring  your  wife  to 
Vaucreuse.  She  will  be  my  friend.  We  will  be 
neighbours.  Isn't  that  a  way?" 

Antoinette  Jacquemin  saw  that  Michel  did  not 
laugh,  that  he  was  silent  and  let  his  eyes  wander 
over  the  distant  view  of  Marmantray.  Her 
trained  sensitiveness,  her  life  so  close  to  suffering, 
had  made  her  clairvoyant.  She  understood  that 
she  had  not  hurt  him;  but  had  only,  without 
meaning  to,  passed  near  some  sorrowful  secret. 
Her  whole  heart  was  moved.  She  stopped  as 
Monsieur  de  Meximieu  and  Monsieur  Jacquemin 
had  done  just  before,  and  almost  in  the  same  place. 

"Look  at  me,"  she  said. 

He  saw  before  him  a  child  face  already  made 
maternal  by  compassion,  lifted  by  the  purest  feel- 
ing of  tenderness,  eyes  trained  to  read  and  to  feel, 
and  with  a  look  which  penetrated  so  deeply  into 
his  soul,  that  Michel  felt  himself  understood. 
He  who  was  so  unexpansive  and  forced  by  his  life 
to  do  without  a  confidante,  was  incapable  of  re- 
sisting this  feeling  or  even  of  being  silent  about 
it.  He  said,  still  looking  at  Antoinette  Jacquemin : 

"It  is  true,  I  am  very  unhappy." 

"Have  you  been  so  long?" 

"Always." 

She  clasped  her  hands  and  with  her  delicate  fair 
head  made  a  motion  of  pity. 

"And  I  who  am  so  much  loved  here,  have 
often  complained!" 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    131 

Her  eyes  turned  away  toward  the  farm. 

"Then,  what  I  said  in  jest,  is  truer  than  I 
thought.  When  you  marry,  so  many  things  will 
be  forgotten!  Let  me  talk  to  you  as  I  am  in  the 
habit  of  doing.  It  does  not  seem  to  me  that  you 
are  naturally  a  sorrowful  person;  you  are  only  a 
man  who  suffers.  Trouble  comes  and  goes.  A 
wife  could  surely  keep  it  away,  since  a  child  can 
succeed  in  doing  so.  I  have  known  that  since  I 
have  been  old  enough  to  understand  at  all." 

Michel  hesitated  a  moment.  So  much  sincerity, 
such  evident  confidence,  and  a  secret  hope  of  com- 
fort, led  him  on.  It  was  the  response  of  youth  to 
the  call  of  youth. 

"I  am  not  the  kind  of  man  who  is  apt  to  please," 
said  Michel. 

He  blushed  as  he  said  it.  Antoinette  looked 
him  up  and  down  and  back  again,  and  answered 
with  a  very  serious  air: 

"  Why  do  you  say  that?  Really,  you  judge  your- 
self wrongly  and  you  libel  yourself.  Most  women 
are  like  me,  I  imagine,  less  susceptible  to  beauty 
of  feature  in  a  man  than  to  the  character  beneath, 
and  a  face  is  never  unattractive  when  one  sees  in 
it  great  energy  and  uprightness." 

He  held  out  his  hand  to  her. 

"Thanks;  you  have  the  gift  of  comforting, 
Mademoiselle,  I  see  that.  But  what  you  tell 
me  would  have  to  be  repeated  to  me  many  times 
before  I  could  believe  it.  I  have  been  too  often 
told  the  contrary. " 

"If  that  is  all  that  is  needed,  I  will  repeat  it  to 
you!" 


132    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

"We  only  see  each  other  every  two  or  three 
months.  You  will  have  time  to  forget  it!" 

"I  never  forget.  I  will  go  as  far  as  Fonteneilles 
to  tell  it  to  you  if  need  be!  I  am  very  free  at 
Vaucreuse." 

She  was  laughing  now.  They  had  begun  to 
walk  on  again,  quickly,  in  the  clear  sunshine.  At 
the  end  of  the  grove  they  met  the  General  and 
Monsieur  Jacquemin.  The  two  men  had  come  to 
some  agreement.  This  showed  plainly  in  both  of 
them  by  their  air  of  relaxation  and  that  lassitude 
which  follows  an  animated  discussion. 

But  a  shade  of  embarrassment  survived  the 
agreement.  Antoinette,  too  young  to  notice 
everything,  only  saw,  in  the  glad  expression 
which  lighted  up  her  father's  face,  as  he  met  her, 
a  new  sign  of  the  paternal  tenderness  and  pride 
which  showed  itself  every  day  in  a  thousand 
ways.  But  Michel  was  disturbed  when  Monsieur 
Jacquemin  took  him  by  both  hands  and  said  to 
him  in  a  brusque  and  emphatic  tone : 

"My  dear  neighbour,  I  beg  your  pardon  for 
having  neglected  you  a  little  to-day;  you  were 
gayer  back  there  than  you  would  have  been  be- 
tween us  two;  but  I  want  the  chance  to  say  to 
you  that  you  have  had  an  excellent,  happy  in- 
fluence at  Fonteneilles.  You  are  a  good  man  and 
a  progressive  one." 

"I  hope  to  continue  so,"  said  Michel. 

Monsieur  Jacquemin  started  and  his  expression 
showed  surprise. 

"Assuredly,  my  dear  friend,  you  will  remain 
what  you  are.  I  do  not  doubt  it." 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    133 

The  four  pedestrians  followed  the  path  around 
the  warren,  and  returned  to  the  chateau  by  a  road 
which,  going  up  the  side  of  the  hill,  passed  between 
the  groups  of  oaks  and  went  down  again  toward 
Vaucreuse.  The  conversation  was  about  agri- 
culture, cattle-raising,  and  hunting.  Monsieur  de 
Meximieu  was  absent-minded.  He  took  leave  of 
his  host  at  the  steps  of  the  chateau.  His  gravity 
contrasted  with  his  ordinary  manner  of  taking 
leave,  gay,  and  with  a  well-bred  cordiality. 

They  returned  in  silence.  The  General  found 
waiting  at  Fonteneilles  the  wood  merchant  to 
whom  he  had  sold  the  year's  cuttings.  He  settled 
his  accounts  with  him,  received  the  promised 
sum,  remained  for  some  time  alone  and,  about 
five  o'clock,  rang  for  his  valet. 

"Go  say  to  Monsieur  le  Comte  that  I  am  wait- 
ing for  him  in  the  smoking-room." 

The  smoking-room  was  a  vast  apartment  hung 
with  old  green  damask  and,  with  the  dining-room, 
occupied  the  southern  end  of  the  chateau.  The 
windows  opened,  two  upon  the  forest,  two  upon 
the  avenue  and  the  terraced  fields  looking  toward 
the  village.  It  was  on  this  side,  near  the  windows 
through  which  the  last  daylight  filtered,  that  the 
General  was  seated  before  a  table  loaded  with 
volumes  and  letters,  when  Michel  came  in. 

"Sit  down,  my  dear  fellow;  I  have  something 
to  say  to  you.  It  is  an  important  matter." 

The  young  man  seated  himself,  facing  the  light. 

"Michel,  I  am  selling  Fonteneilles!" 

"You  are  selling!    Fonteneilles!    You?" 

"I  told  you  to  sit  down  and  you  are  getting  up. 


134    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

Sit  down  again  and  listen.  I  am  not  offering  it  for 
sale;  I  am  selling  it!  That  is  not  the  same  thing. 
In  fact,  I  have  sold  it.  Do  not  interrupt  me!" 

"But  how  can  I  help  interrupting  you!  It  is 
infamous!" 

Michel  was  pale  and  his  two  outstretched  hands 
grasped  the  table. 

"Infamous!    What  is  to  become  of  me?" 

"Exactly  true;  that  is  the  question.  I  ex- 
pected it.  We  will  come  to  that  presently.  But, 
listen  to  me.  Listen  to  me,  I  say.  And  do  not 
turn  pale  like  that.  Am  I  speaking  to  a  man 
or  to  a  chjld?" 

A  strong  voice  replied,  and  the  very  windows 
vibrated  under  the  shock  of  the  words. 

"To  a  child,  my  father,  who  suffers,  and  who 
has  already  suffered  much  through  you!" 

Exhausted  by  the  constraint  which  he  had  used 
to  keep  from  crying  out  his  grief,  Michel  threw 
himself  back  upon  an  arm-chair  and  dropped  his 
head. 

It  was  indeed  the  child  who  suffered,  and  the 
man  who  was  silent. 

Monsieur  de  Meximieu  had  taken  from  the 
pocket  of  his  waistcoat  a  monocle  without  a  cord, 
which  he  always  used  in  a  discussion  when  he  had 
need  of  a  diversion  and  of  a  moment  of  respite. 
The  muscles  of  his  left  eyebrow  knotted  around 
the  glass,  the  right  eye  remained  wide  open,  and 
the  figure  of  the  old  General  was  entirely  changed. 
A  restrained  irony,  the  elegant  and  supercilious 
politeness  of  a  diplomat,  in  whom  there  lived  the 
experience  of  a  race,  sharpened  and  drew  up  the 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    135 

wrinkles  of  his  soldierly  face.  Beneath  the  man 
of  command  another  man  appeared  who  seldom 
had  a  role  to  play,  but  always  played  it  well. 

"My  dear  fellow,"  he  said  with  deliberate  slow- 
ness, "you  condemn  what  was  before  your  time. 
That  is  a  mistake  in  life.  The  situation  was  made 
for  me  by  long-past  causes.  My  father  left  debts. 
The  estate  of  Fonteneilles  is  mortgaged." 

"I  knew  it." 

"You  knew  it  but  you  thought  that  the  debts 
were  mine.  That  is  not  so!  They  are  inherit- 
ances. In  the  second  place,  there  is  your  mother. 
She  had  no  fortune." 

"And  you  allude  to  that!" 

"I  remind  you  of  it  precisely  because  I  cannot 
reproach  her  for  her  extravagance.  I  should  feel 
like  a  blackguard  if  I  did,  or  if  I  refused  her  the 
money  which  she  asks.  Now,  she  asks  for  a  great 
deal.  We  lead  a  stupid  and  ineffectual  life.  The 
world  holds  us.  I  mean  to  say  that  it  holds  me 
through  your  mother.  And  it  does  not  let  go." 

With  his  left  hand  the  General  touched  a  bundle 
of  papers. 

"Here  are  my  accounts.  They  show  that  I  am 
three-quarters  ruined!  Do  not  cry  out!  Do  not 
throw  up  your  arms!  It  is  a  fact  and  I  have 
had  my  share  in  this  result.  I  am  going  to  tell 
you  what  that  is.  You  would  suppose  a  thou- 
sand things  if  I  did  not  accuse  myself." 

"No;  that  is  enough." 

"You  would  think  it  was  play!  You  would  be 
wrong.  I  have  paid,  here  and  there,  the  debts  of 
some  lieutenant  or  non-commissioned  officer,  but 


136    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

I  do  not  gamble.  Play  does  not  count  in  my  life. 
Women?  Very  little." 

"I  beg  of  you — !  I  do  not  ask  you  for  con- 
fidences!" 

"I  offer  them  to  you.  Ah!  My  boy,  we  must 
understand  each  other  fully  once  and  I  shall  tell 
you  everything.  What  has  been  my  great  per- 
sonal expense?  I  can  answer:  The  service  of  the 
king,  or  of  the  country,  which  is  the  same  thing; 
the  Colonel's  table,  the  Colonel's  hunts,  the  Gen- 
eral's receptions;  private  help  given  to  the  house- 
holds of  poor  officers,  my  profession,  my  career, 
my  responsibilities.  To  be  lavish  in  position  is  a 
tradition  with  the  Meximieus.  They  ruin  them- 
selves by  it." 

"They  die  of  it." 

"No.  There  remains  to  me  my  pay  and  some 
income;  just  enough  to  live  on." 

"And  for  me,  what  remains  for  me?  To  ask  for 
a  position  as  underwriter?  With  your  influence 
and  my  name,  I  shall,  perhaps,  succeed.  'Count 
Michel  de  Meximieu,  assistant  inspector  of  in- 
surance.' That  will  sound  well,  will  it  not?  I 
cannot  help  judging  you,  my  father!  To  allow 
me  to  fit  myself  for  a  profession,  to  allow  me 
to  look  upon  Fonteneilles  as  my  property  and 
my  life,  and  after  five  years  of  work  to  break  it  all 
suddenly  is  a  wrong,  and  a  cruel  wrong." 

"It  is  one  for  me  in  the  first  place.  And  then 
it  is  easy  to  say  '  a  wrong.'  Misfortune  would  be 
a  truer  word.  I  do  not  find  that  my  conscience 
accuses  me." 

"I  do." 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    137 

"Always  the  same!  You  add  to  the  command- 
ments of  God,  my  dear  fellow.  Eight  are  enough." 

"Ten,  father." 

"That  may  be.  There  is  none  that  forbids  me 
to  sell  my  land.  Besides,  Jacquemin  has  prom- 
ised me  to  keep  it  absolutely  secret,  even  from  his 
daughter;  and  we  have  agreed  that  I  can  take 
back  my  word  at  the  end  of  the  year  while  he 
remains  pledged  in  any  case,  if  I  wish  it.  Who 
knows?  Something  may  happen  between  now 
and  the  end  of  the  year." 

"Nothing  will  happen  except  more  creditors. 
And  I  ask  you  again.  In  this  ruin,  what  is  to 
become  of  me?  I  am  twenty-six  years  old.  I 
am  an  agriculturist.  What  do  you  expect  me 
to  do?" 

"Only  one  thing;  to  come  and  live  with  your 
mother  and  me." 

"In  Paris?" 

"Certainly." 

"To  do  nothing  there?  Thanks.  I  am  accus- 
tomed to  work.  I  do  not  accept.  I  cannot 
accept." 

Monsieur  de  Meximieu  had  let  his  monocle  drop. 
He  was  troubled,  embarrassed,  and  secretly  hu- 
miliated. With  the  tips  of  his  fingers  he  rubbed 
off  the  moisture  collected  on  the  window  panes, 
and  looked  out  down  the  avenue,  as  if  a  carriage 
were  coming.  But  the  solitude  was  complete. 
The  darkness  had  confused  meadows,  fields, 
boundaries,  until  there  was  left  only  two  kingdoms 
over  which  she  ruled  with  unequal  power — the 
earth,  entirely  dominated,  and  the  sky,  where  a 


138    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

little  light  still  fought  for  life.  He  said,  without 
turning  around,  in  a  voice  that  showed  his  pride 
was  weakening : 

"What  do  you  want?  I  have  nothing  better  to 
offer  you  now.  The  hardest  thing  in  ruin  is  to  be 
obliged  to  confess  it.  I  have  done  so  twice 
to-day." 

During  several  moments  the  Marquis  de  Mexi- 
mieu  and  Michel  remained  silent.  Both  were 
thinking.  Plans  were  made  and  rejected  one 
after  the  other;  a  tumult  of  thoughts,  reproaches, 
useless  questions,  hopeless  complaints,  continued 
within  them  the  interrupted  dispute.  Tears  which 
come  after  anger  and  after  irony,  began  to  swell 
up  from  the  depths  of  these  passionate  hearts. 
But  they  must  not  even  be  suspected.  The  whole 
past  forbade  it.  Michel's  arm-chair  moved  in  the 
darkness.  The  General  thought  that  his  son  was 
going  to  renew  the  discussion.  But  that  was  not 
what  happened.  Michel  had  risen.  In  a  calm 
voice,  almost  in  his  usual  tone,  he  asked: 

"Do  you  believe  that  my  mother  would  be 
willing  to  live  here?  You  have  only  two  years 
before  retirement.  We  could  keep  the  chateau 
and  a  little  land. " 

Monsieur  de  Meximieu  replied  in  three  words: 

"My  poor  fellow!" 

One  of  the  two  men  left  the  smoking-room.  No 
one  stopped  him.  The  other  remained  sitting  be- 
fore the  desk,  but  he  forgot,  until  the  dinner  hour, 
to  ring  for  a  lamp. 

At  seven  o'clock  the  valet  came  to  announce 
that  dinner  was  served  and  that  Monsieur  le 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    139 

Comte,  who  was  not  feeling  well,  would  not  come 
down. 

The  next  day,  early  hi  the  morning,  the  General 
left  for  Paris. 


V. 


THE  PETITION  FOR  MERCY. 

MICHEL  wrote,  that  same  night,  a  long  letter  to 
his  mother,  which  began  with  cries  of  grief,  but 
which,  as  the  strong  handwriting  covered  the 
sheets  of  paper,  grew  tender,  supplicating,  and 
even  let  a  little  hope  shine  through.  He  had  re- 
read it,  and  had  added  this  postscript:  "Do  not 
answer  me,  reflect  upon  all  that  I  have  just  said;  I 
will  come  in  a  few  days  to  kiss  you,  to  ask  you  for 
an  answer  and  to  thank  you." 

During  the  first  week  of  April  his  hope  con- 
tinued to  grow.  It  followed  Michel  through  the 
fields,  for  he  had  to  hurry  from  one  end  of  the 
estate  to  the  other.  They  were  ploughing  the  fal- 
low land;  they  were  planting  maize,  clover,  French 
grass;  they  were  beginning  to  cut  the  first  acres  of 
green  rye  upon  the  heights  along  the  road  of  Fon- 
teneilles,  and  near  the  ponds  of  Vaux;  they  were 
rolling  a  new  meadow,  and  everywhere,  in  the 
old  pasture  lands,  it  was  necessary  to  see  to  the 
drainage  ditches  and  canals,  and  the  trenches, 
which  the  Spring  had  swollen  with  fresh  water, 
and  whose  banks  were  already  covering  them- 
selves, in  the  sun,  with  tufts  of  mint,  pimpernel, 
and  hemlock.  The  sap  spread  in  the  branches; 
the  earth  opened,  the  dogs  barked  at  night  at  the 

140 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    141 

passage  of  the  beasts  roaming  the  woods.  Grollier 
had  put  on  a  straw  hat.  Gilbert  Cloquet,  partly 
convalescent,  had  been  seen  in  a  hemp  field  be- 
ginning to  enjoy  his  work  again,  and  digging  with 
one  hand ;  the  maids  who  watched  the  cows,  when 
they  answered  a  good-morning  called  across  the 
paths,  had  stars  in  their  eyes.  Why  should  he 
not  hope?  "If  I  can  persuade  my  mother,  after 
she  has  said  yes,  to  pass  three  days  at  Fonte- 
neilles,  she  will  be  enchanted.  She  is  artistic! 
And  above  all,  she  is  kind;  she  will  have  pity  on 
me,  and  on  the  estate,  which  has  belonged  to  us 
for  more  than  three  centuries,  and  on  the  people  of 
Fonteneilles,  who  are  not  perfect,  but  who  would 
be  worth  even  less  if  we  were  not  there.  I  will 
give  her  more  time,  if  she  wants  it,  to  leave  Paris 
and  to  come  and  settle  here:  till  the  middle  of 
Summer,  or  the  middle  of  Autumn.  She  will 
come. " 

The  9th  of  April,  which  was  Holy  Monday, 
Michel  started  for  Paris.  In  the  rack  of  the  rail- 
way carriage  in  front  of  him,  he  carried  a  valise, 
a  hat  box  in  which  was  the  silk  hat,  never  seen  at 
Fonteneilles,  and  a  large  map,  rolled  and  wrap- 
ped up,  of  the  estate,  "to  talk  over  and  explain 
things,  if  need  be."  He  always  looked  forward  for 
weeks  in  advance  to  these  trips  to  Paris,  made 
three  or  four  times  a  year.  But  this  time,  mixed 
with  the  usual  pleasure  of  renewing  old  acquaint- 
ances and  meeting  friends  of  childhood,  and  en- 
joying all  the  elegancies  of  life  which  he  had  always 
liked,  there  was  mingled  an  emotion  which  kept 
him  awake  and  excited  through  the  whole  journey. 


142    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

At  the  Paris  station  he  sprang  into  a  cab,  and  said 
to  the  driver:  " Drive  fast,  I  am  expected."  He 
was  not  expected,  because  he  had  not  written 
again;  and  he  was  not  sure  whether  his  mother 
would  be  in  at  half  past  three  in  the  afternoon. 

She  was  at  home.  He  had  scarcely  entered  the 
apartment  of  the  avenue  Kleber,  when  he  heard  a 
well-known  voice,  a  gentle  voice  which  said : 

"Why,  of  course  I'll  see  him!  Is  it  really 
Michel?" 

Three  seconds  later  a  door  opened ;  Madame  de 
Meximieu  ran  to  meet  the  traveller,  took  his  big 
head  in  both  her  hands  and  kissed  him  again  and 
again. 

"How  do  you  do,  my  dearest.  How  glad  I  am 
to  see  you  again!  Since  Christmas,  just  think  of 
it!  Your  father  has  not  come  in.  But  he  will  be 
here  at  seven  o'clock.  We  are  dining  out.  How 
happy  I  am  to  have  you  here!  Come  to  my 
room." 

She  took  him  by  the  hand  and  drew  him  into  a 
room  hung  with  cream-coloured  stuff  flowered 
a  la  Pompadour,  and  bright  with  all  the  light  of 
the  avenue. 

"You  are  looking  well.  You  are  not  tired  with 
the  journey?  No.  Then  you  can  stay  up  this 
evening?  Do  you  know  what  I  will  do?  I  will 
telephone  the  Virlets,  that  I  am  bringing  you. 
They  are  intimate  friends  whom  you  do  not 
know.  They  will  be  delighted.  That  is  settled, 
is  it  not?" 

He  had  seated  himself  by  her  side  and  he  let 
her  talk  on  for  he  found  it  pleasant  to  have  some 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    143 

one  doing  things  for  him.  And  it  was  a  pleasure 
to  see  her  so  animated,  gay,  and  young. 

It  was  only  after  a  half  hour  that  he  asked  her, 
almost  without  trembling,  as  about  a  thing  the 
time  for  speaking  of  which  would  naturally  come 
in  the  first  pause: 

"And  my  great  question,  have  you  thought 
about  it?" 

Madame  de  Meximieu  raised  her  hand  and 
waved  it  as  if  to  brush  aside  his  words  and  scatter 
them. 

"Do  not  let  us  talk  about  that  now.  Like  all 
serious  questions,  it  must  be  put  off  as  long  as 
possible.  Yes,  I  have  thought  about  it.  Your 
father  has  repeated  to  me  your — conversation 
together.  Then,  he  has  left  me  free  to  do  what- 
ever I  like." 

"So  much  the  better!" 

"Do  not  say  'so  much  the  better/  my  son.  I 
do  not  know — it  depends  a  little  upon  you." 

"Upon  me?" 

She  smiled  a  maternal  smile. 

"Yes,  I  will  explain  to  you.  I  have  perhaps 
found  a  way  out.  Do  not  ask  me  to  talk  about  it 
now.  I  will  give  you  an  appointment.  When 
must  you  go  back?" 

"Day  after  to-morrow." 

"Very  well!  The  day  after  to-morrow  at  three 
o'clock.  Does  that  suit  you?" 

She  kissed  him  again  and  they  separated. 

In  the  evening  Michel  dined  with  the  Virlets; 
with  his  father,  who  showed  no  resentment  for  the 
violent  scenes  at  Fonteneilles;  with  his  mother, 


144    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

who  showed  herself  more  tender  and  kind  to  her 
son  than  ever  before.  Tuesday  he  went  about  and 
made  some  calls.  Wednesday  morning  he  went 
to  La  Villette,  and  passed  several  hours  watch- 
ing the  arrival  of  the  cattle,  and  talking  with 
cattle-dealers  and  merchants  whom  he  knew 
would  be  there.  He  had  to  find  out  the  condition 
of  the  market  in  France  and  in  Belgium;  to  buy 
some  animals;  to  renew  some  commercial  rela- 
tions which  would  be- useful,  if  they  kept  Fonte- 
neilles;  he  must  keep  up  to  date  in  his  profession, 
and  take  care  of  the  future,  either  for  himself  or  for 
some  one  else.  He  lunched  rather  late  at  the  res- 
taurant Dagorno,  rue  d'Allemagne,  where  land- 
owners, merchants  from  the  valley  of  Auge  and 
from  several  provinces  of  France  met  together. 
Then,  as  it  was  only  two  o'clock  when  he  found 
himself  in  front  of  the  Printemps  shops,  he  re- 
solved to  walk  the  rest  of  the  way  home. 

As  soon  as  he  was  alone  in  the  crowd  and  had 
begun  to  walk  toward  the  fitoile  quarter,  the 
anxiety,  which  he  had  restrained  with  difficulty, 
seized  him  again.  In  a  few  moments  his  fate 
would  be  decided.  All  kinds  of  dark  presenti- 
ments seized  him  and  weighed  him  down.  He 
could  not  explain  why.  He  battled  against  them. 
He  tried  to  recall  his  mother's  words  and  looks, 
and  to  foresee  what  she  had  decided.  Poor  sport ! 
Wilful  delusion!  He  knew  it  well!  All  the  same 
he  repeated  to  himself,  as  the  only  argument  to 
which  there  was  no  reply,  "She  is  kind,  fortu- 
nately, very  kind." 

Madame  de  Meximieu  was  not,  in  fact,  without 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    145 

kindness  of  heart.  Her  friends  even  said:  "Mar- 
guerite has  real  feeling  underneath."  And  they 
spoke  of  visits  which  she  had  made  to  them  in  times 
of  trouble;  they  recalled  things  she  had  said,  well 
fitted  to  encourage  a  sad  heart,  and  they  told  a 
story  about  a  cabman,  a  poor  drunken  devil,  who 
had  fallen  from  his  seat  in  the  street  in  winter, 
with  a  stroke  of  apoplexy,  and  whom  Madame  de 
Meximieu — who  was  in  the  cab — had  helped  to 
pick  up,  had  had  carried  to  the  nearest  drug  store 
and  had  taken  care  of  herself,  "yes,  my  dear,  her- 
self, during  an  hour  and  a  half!  The  druggist, 
whom  she  herself  paid,  declared  that  the  cab- 
man could  not  bear  any  more  rubbing  and  blister- 
ing and  that  he  must  be  taken  to  the  hospital. 
Otherwise  she  would  have  kept  on  working  over 
him,  she  told  me."  They  could  have  proved 
in  other  ways  the  kindness  of  Madame  de  Mexi- 
mieu. Unfortunately,  she  dispensed  it  outside  of 
her  family  by  fits  and  starts,  like  money,  in  the 
least  judicious  way.  She  lacked  common-sense, 
the  habit  of  using  words  to  express  a  clear  idea,  of 
using  her  mind  to  think  with,  of  using  knowledge 
of  the  world  for  anything  except  to  observe  the 
weakness  of  her  neighbours.  Madame  de  Mexi- 
mieu, at  the  age  of  forty-eight,  paid  the  penalty  of 
her  early  education,  which  had  been  what  is  called 
fashionable,  that  is  to  say,  distinctly  empty.  She 
had  never  known  what  home  meant ;  she  had  dis- 
sipated her  life,  her  time,  her  reflections,  her  tastes 
and  her  money,  without  having  anything  to  show 
for  what  she  had  given.  In  the  beginning  of  her 
married  life,  if  her  husband  had  known  how  to 


146    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

judge  her  less  severely  and  to  love  her  less  lightly, 
and  really  to  understand  her  better,  he  could  have 
repaired  the  lack  of  training  of  his  young  wife.  At 
present  she  was  almost  an  old  woman,  in  whom 
the  faculty  of  understanding  many  things  was 
already  dead.  Pleasure,  diversions,  and  gossip  had 
become  the  greatest  influences  and  the  important 
things  in  her  life.  She  really  suffered  when  she 
had  to  pass  three  weeks  outside  of  Paris;  she  had 
no  personal  opinion  upon  any  subject;  she  pos- 
sessed merely,  in  her  memory,  a  badly  ticketed 
and  incomplete  collection  of  the  opinions  of  other 
people,  very  varied  in  origin  and  nearly  all  anon- 
ymous, the  memories  of  superficial  reading  or  of 
conversations,  fragments  of  confidences  or  of 
talks  which  had  not  taught  her  anything  and  had 
not  even  given  her  information,  but  which  she 
used  with  such  natural  art  that  it  was  often  said 
of  her:  "She  is  extremely  intelligent."  She  was 
passably  so.  Prudent  about  history,  discreet 
in  the  abstract,  yawning  over  politics,  she  spoke 
with  ease  upon  other  topics.  Her  voice  was 
musical  and  cultivated.  She  kept  her  mind 
warm  and  cradled  it.  Sometimes,  and  without 
desiring  it,  Madame  de  Meximieu  had  a  glimpse  of 
the  poverty  of  her  heart,  her  life,  her  past,  and  her 
future,  and  she  was  frightened.  Suddenly,  when 
she  heard  some  tale  of  love  or  of  death,  she  pitied 
herself.  Floods  of  unreasoning  tears  sprang  to 
her  eyes  and  she  felt  that  she  might  have  shed 
them  to  better  purpose.  The  woman  she  might 
have  been  appeared  to  her  vaguely,  but  still  enough 
to  make  her  suffer.  Her  fear  of  solitude  was  the 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    147 

result  of  these  experiences.  She  was  afraid  of  her 
approaching  old  age,  when  she  would  no  longer 
be  diverted  or  be  able  to  "go  out,"  when  she 
would  be  face  to  face  with  herself  and  with  death. 
She  would  have  had  the  illusion  of  living  and  then 
all  would  be  ended. 

Michel  did  not  know  his  mother  well.  He  had 
woven  a  romance  for  himself  about  this  life  beside 
which  he  had  grown  up.  He  had  filled  up  the 
empty  places  and  explained  its  mystery  with  his 
childlike  heart.  From  the  words  of  passionate 
tenderness,  furtive  complaints  and  tears  at  his 
departure,  he  had  created  a  mother,  exquisite  and 
delicate,  obliged  to  live  in  Paris,  but  really  suf- 
fering from  the  absence  of  her  son.  It  would  not 
have  surprised  him  to  have  heard  that  Madame 
de  Meximieu  spent  a  great  deal  of  money  and 
time  in  works  of  charity;  he  understood  that  she 
was  admired ;  he  had  always  dreamed  of  bringing 
her  back  to  Fonteneilles,  later,  when  the  chateau 
should  be  restored;  he  went  even  farther  in  his 
dream  and  he  thought  sometimes:  "What  a  friend 
she  would  be,  what  a  guide,  and  what  a  mother,  if 
one  day  a  young  wife  should  come  to  live  with  us ! " 
He  saw  them,  the  two  dear  women's  figures,  side  by 
side  in  the  avenue,  at  the  hour  when  the  declining 
day  lends  itself  to  confidences  and  softens  the 
shadows  under  the  deep  green  of  the  oak  trees. 
His  mother  appeared  to  him  more  distinctly  than 
the  other  figure.  He  thought  her  incomparably 
beautiful.  For  him  she  never  grew  old.  In  the 
depths  of  his  eyes,  the  portrait  of  his  mother  was 
the  one  which  he  had  seen  all  his  childhood  in  the 


148    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

little  drawing-room  of  the  avenue  Kle*ber,  the 
pastel  of  Dubufe,  suspended  from  the  end  of  a  red 
cord,  and  which  moved  in  the  wind  from  the  door. 
The  Marquise  de  Meximieu  still  had  small  and 
regular  features,  and  that  complexion  of  a  red- 
dish blonde  which  prolongs  for  a  while  the  twilight 
of  youth.  But  her  fiftieth  year  had  come,  and  noth- 
ing can  resist  that.  Age  was  written  in  her  flesh 
which  was  changing  under  her  still  beautiful  skin. 
On  seeing  his  mother  again,  after  months  of  sepa- 
ration, Michel  had  felt  that  impression,  so  familiar 
and  so  cruel:  " She  has  aged!"  Not  sudden  ruin, 
but  the  eyelids  grown  heavy,  the  fine  wrinkles 
which  were  almost  pretty,  lengthening  the  eyes; 
a  slight  puffiness  at  the  base  of  the  cheeks,  and 
certain  livid  reflections  which  shot  at  intervals 
beneath  the  admirable  pearl  of  her  shoulders  and 
neck.  At  the  end  of  three  days  he  no  longer  no- 
ticed his  mother's  loss  of  beauty.  He  had  a  mo- 
ment of  surprise  and  delight  when,  on  returning 
from  La  Villette,  at  three  o'clock,  at  the  exact  hour 
of  the  rendezvous,  he  found  Madame  de  Meximieu 
in  the  ante-chamber,  in  visiting  dress,  with  a  hat 
with  aigrettes  on  her  head,  her  veil  knotted,  her 
collar  of  sable  half  open  and  showing  a  collar  of 
gold  with  a  pendant  of  emeralds  and  pearls. 
She  was  only  thirty  again,  the  age  of  the  portrait. 
"You  have  just  come  in,  mother?" 
"No,  dearest,  I  am  going  out,  but  I  was  wait- 
ing for  you  as  we  had  arranged;  I  have  still  a 
moment.  Come  in  the  little  drawing-room." 

He  followed,  displeased,  and  seated  himself  near 
the  white  mantel-piece,  turning  his  back  to  the 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    149 

light.  Madame  de  Meximieu  seated  herself  on  the 
opposite  side.  She  smiled;  you  might  have 
thought  that  it  was  at  her  gown  of  crepe  de  Chine, 
which  was  quite  new  and  hung  admirably. 

"Fancy,  I  had  forgotten;  yet  the  invitation 
was  stuck  in  the  corner  of  my  mirror;  I  have  a 
matine'e  at  Madame  de  Grechelles.  The  poor 
woman  is  so  unhappy;  she  lost  her  only  daughter 
three  years  ago,  and  she  is  so  grateful  when  you 
go  to  see  her!  She  consoles  herself  by  having  a 
little  literature  and  music  at  home.  Only,  as  it  is 
Holy  Week  it  will  be  for  a  very  intimate  circle. 
Why  won't  you  come?  Must  you  absolutely  go 
this  evening?" 

"Absolutely.  And  I  counted  on  our  having 
time  to  talk;  I  hoped  to  pass  the  last  hours  with 
you." 

"But  I  have  explained  to  you,  my  dear  child! 
It  is  impossible." 

She  stretched  out  her  gloved  hand  and  caressed 
the  hand  of  her  son. 

"Do  not  be  angry;  tell  me  everything.  I  said 
a  moment,  but  I  can  give  you  ten,  though  no 
more." 

"It  would  take  half  a  day!" 

"And  for  what,  mon  Dieu!" 

"To  tell  you  all  my  life,  which  you  do  not  know." 

"That  is  a  phrase  which  I  have  heard  at  the 
theatre,  my  dear." 

"It  is  not  from  there  that  I  have  taken  it 
though,  believe  me." 

He  made  an  effort  to  gather  his  thoughts  and 
the  wrinkle  between  his  brows  deepened. 


150    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

"Very  well;  I  will  go  straight  to  the  end.  My 
father,  as  you  know,  has  told  me  that  we  were 
almost  ruined." 

"Did  he  accuse  me  of  it?" 

Michel  made  a  vague  gesture;  she  took  it  as  a 
denial. 

11  So  much  the  better,  for  the  injustice  would 
have  been  too  glaring!  Your  father  has  never 
known  the  value  of  money.  All  his  life  he 
has  spent  more  than  he  had.  And  you  under- 
stand that  it  was  not  I  who  could  reproach  him 
with  it!  I  am  in  a  delicate  position;  he  married 
me  almost  without  dot,  and  the  fortune  which  he 
has  dissipated,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  he  was  the 
master  of." 

"Mother,  I  do  not  judge  between  you.  I,  on 
the  contrary,  ask  that  you  judge  me.  If  there 
be  any  one  who  has  no  responsibility — listen 
to  me  well  and  understand,  please — for  these 
excessive  expenses,  you  will  admit  that  it  is  I. 
Well!  I  am  attached  to  Fonteneilles  by  every 
kind  of  tie;  it  is  our  ancestral  property;  I  beg 
you  to  save  it  by  coming  back  there." 

"Forever?" 

"Surely.  My  father  has  told  me  that  we  can 
only  keep  up  one  establishment." 

"The  country  all  the  year  round!  Why,  my 
dear  boy " 

Madame  de  Meximieu  had  sunk  back  in  her 
easy-chair,  bewildered,  hardly  understanding 
how  such  a  proposal  could  have  been  made  to 
her.  Her  son  waited,  trembling,  for  a  more  defi- 
nite answer.  She  recovered  herself.  With  a 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    151 

feminine  gesture  which  caressed  the  material, 
she  touched  her  corsage,  the  embroidery  on  her 
sleeve,  her  skirt  of  crepe  de  Chine.  Her  head  fol- 
lowed the  gesture  with  a  youthful  movement. 

"Tell  me,  Michel!  Do  I  look  like  a  shep- 
herdess?" 

"Oh,  no!" 

"Then  you  would  not  sentence  me  to  live  in 
the  woods?" 

"Is  it  really  a  penalty  to  live  with  me  and  my 
father,  usefully  and  simply!" 

"I  would  like  that,  my  dear  boy,  I  would  ask 
nothing  better  than  that!" 

"Then  do  it!" 

"But  my  health  needs  so  much  care." 

Michel  replied  eagerly : 

"But  you  only  need  rest  and  quiet,  my  mother! " 

"Still,  one  must  consider  a  rest  that  is  practi- 
cable, my  friend!  What  would  we  do,  down  there, 
without  occupations,  without  society?" 

"Without  diversions?  That's  what  you  mean 
to  say,  isn't  it?" 

"Well,  yes,  if  you  like;  I  cannot  get  on  with- 
out them." 

"Without  matinees  of  literature  and  music, 
without  soirees,  without  plays,  without  gossip, 
and  without  an  auto?  What  would  we  do  if  we 
could  be  of  use  to  somebody!  If  we  should  econ- 
omize, instead  of  ruining  ourselves!  If  we  could 
make  ourselves  loved !  If  we  could  think  of  others 
besides  ourselves?  In  truth,  the  question  is  a 
bitter  one  and  I  understand  it." 

"You  are  hard,  Michel,  very  hard — like  your 


152    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

father — you  are  like  him;  I  would  not  have  be- 
lieved it.  And  you  hurt  me  very  much." 

She  wept.  Tears  gathered  on  her  eyelids,  and 
to  prevent  their  dropping  and  wetting  her  veil, 
she  sopped  them  up  with  little  dashes,  her  face 
turned  toward  the  dying  fire.  The  tip  of  her  boot 
tapped  the  andirons. 

* '  Yes,  you  are  hard.  You  think  only  of  yourself." 

"And  you,  my  mother,  whom  do  you  think  of? 
You  do  not  see,  then,  that  of  us  three  I  am  the 
youngest,  that  mine  is  the  only  future  to  be 
thought  of?  I  am  not  hard,  in  reminding  you  of 
that.  You  wish  to  bring  me  here,  where  I  shall 
be  an  idler.  You  have  allowed  me  to  fit  myself 
for  a  career,  enter  upon  it,  learn  to  love  it,  and 
now  you  break  it  up.  Ah  no !  The  most  cruel  one 
of  us  is  you." 

He  rose  and  took  a  step  toward  her. 

"You  must  understand  that  I  have  been  un- 
happy all  my  life,  mother!" 

Madame  de  Meximieu  raised  her  hands  and 
sobbed. 

"Ah,  my  dear!  And  I!  I  do  not  wish  to  com- 
plain. But  I  do  not  want  you  to  feel  that  I 
have  not  thought  of  you.  Do  not  look  at  me  as 
you  are  doing,  with  such  reproachful  eyes.  Listen. 
You  will  see." 

She  tried  to  smile. 

"I  have  thought  of  a  way — your  father  has  told 
me  of  your  visit  to  Vaucreuse.  He  has  told  me 
that  Mademoiselle  Antoinette  Jacquemin  was 
charming.  Do  you  think  so?" 

"Yes." 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    153 

"She  is  eighteen  years  old.  She  is  rich,  very 
rich.  Well!  Win  her  love.  You  will  recover 
Fonteneilles." 

Michel's  broad  shoulders  shook  with  indigna- 
tion. His  voice  rose  and  trembled. 

"No!  I  beg  of  you!  Not  another  word!  That 
is  not  my  way.  Ah !  What  a  memory  I  am  car- 
rying away!  What  a  last  disappointment!  To 
think  me  capable!" 

"But  of  what,  Michel?  Of  what?  What  have 
I  said  wrong?" 

"To  offer  my  ruin  as  a  dot  to  that  child  whose 
father  has  just  bought  my  Fonteneilles!  Yester- 
day I  could  have  loved  her.  To-day,  what  kind 
of  a  man  should  I  be!" 

The  door  opened.  Monsieur  de  Meximieu  en- 
tered in  full  uniform.  He  came  from  without, 
his  face  whipped  and  roughened  by  the  wind; 
he  had  just  assisted,  as  a  witness,  at  the  marriage 
of  one  of  his  officers.  He  saw  his  son  first,  who 
came  toward  him. 

"You  are  leaving?" 

"This  instant." 

The  expression  of  Michel's  face,  the  knowledge 
that  the  blow  had  been  delivered,  the  sobs  of 
Madame  de  Meximieu,  who  had  hidden  her  head 
in  her  furs,  changed  the  General's  tone  immedi- 
ately. The  father  was  hurt  by  his  son's  grief;  he 
said  quietly: 

"I  warned  you,  my  boy,  that  it  was  impossi- 
ble. Fifty  years  of  Paris,  you  can  understand 
what  a  chain  it  is !  For  myself,  perhaps,  I  would 
have  been  able  to  accept ;  I  come  of  a  country 


154    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

race;  but  she  cannot,  you  can  see  it.  I  never 
thought  it  possible." 

"But  I — I  hoped.  I  have  no  longer  the  least 
illusion,  believe  me.  But  before  leaving  you,  I 
would  like  to  know  if  the  means  which  has  just 
been  proposed  to  me  of  keeping  Fonteneilles,  was 
approved  by  you." 

"What  means?" 

"Philippe,  it  is  I  who  proposed  it,  I  who 
thought  of  it.  I  assure  you,  Michel,  that  your 
father  knew  nothing  about  it." 

"Well,  father,  I  make  you  judge.  My  mother 
has  thought  if  I  could  win  the  love  of  Made- 
moiselle Antoinette  Jacquemin,  if  I  should  marry 
her,  the  Meximieu  would  so  be  able,  by  marriage, 
to  recover  Fonteneilles  and  I — I  have  refused." 

"Why?" 

"Because.  Do  you  ask  me  why?  Because  that 
way  of  regaining  property  which  one  is  unable  to 
keep  is  horrible  to  me!  I  would  never  marry 
Mademoiselle  Jacquemin,  owner  of  Fonteneilles, 
and  taking  me  back  there." 

The  Marquis  de  Meximieu  listened,  gravely, 
bending  a  little  to  hear  better,  as  at  an  inspection 
when  he  was  asked  for  an  explanation.  He 
straightened  up  and  quickly  held  out  his  hand. 

"Quite  right,  Michel,  quite  right." 

And  as  Michel  looked  at  him,  straight  in  the 
eye,  astonished  at  the  force  of  his  grasp,  he 
said: 

"Michel,  you  are  truly  one  of  us!  You  will 
be  at  Fonteneilles  to-night?" 

"Very  late." 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    155 

"And  you  will  remain  there?" 

"Until  December  31st." 

There  was  silence. 

"God  grant  that  you  may  be  there  longer!" 

A  sort  of  sorrowful  smile  passed  over  the  face 
of  the  young  man. 

"He  can,  indeed,  and  I  hope  that  he  will. 
Adieu,  my  father." 

"And  I?"  demanded  Madame  de  Meximieu, 
rising,  "and  I,  Michel,  your  mother,  you  are  not 
going  to  kiss  me?" 

She  came  forward  with  her  arms  outstretched, 
her  head  a  little  bowed,  her  eyes  heavy  with 
regret  for  what  she  had  thoughtlessly  said,  inca- 
pable of  defending  herself,  weeping  daintily  but 
really  weeping. 

"Forgive  me;  you  men,  you  reason  too  much. 
I  assure  you  that  I  love  you  dearly;  I  am  sorry 
that  I  have  not  the  power.  I  can  really  do  no 
more!" 

She  clasped  Michel  in  her  arms  and  he  kissed 
her  on  the  forehead  without  answering.  He 
turned  away.  He  saw  his  father  standing  in  the 
middle  of  the  drawing-room  nodding  approval  to 
his  son,  but  incapable  of  helping  him,  of  com- 
manding in  his  own  house,  he  who  made  himself 
obeyed  everywhere  else;  he  saw  his  mother  retir- 
ing, overcome  and  choking,  her  dress  rumpled  and 
wet  with  tears,  her  veil  lifted  awry,  her  eyes 
swollen  and  grown  aged.  He  longed  to  cry  out : 

"You  are  sacrificing  my  youth  to  the  few  years 
which  remain  to  you!  And  you  are  my  father 
and  my  mother!" 


156    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

But  his  voice  failed  him;  perhaps  his  courage 
also. 

Michel  made  a  gesture  of  adieu  and  of  despair, 
and  went  out. 


VI. 


THE  GLOOMY  SUNDAY. 

EASTER  was  late  that  year.  It  was  the  22d  of 
April,  and  the  bells  were  ringing  for  the  high  mass 
of  Quasimodo  Sunday.  For  Lent  had  been  over 
eight  days.  Who  had  observed  it?  The  sacris- 
tan, Padovan,  formerly  the  lock-keeper  of  the 
Nivernais  canal,  infirm  and  fat,  pulled  the  rope 
in  the  left  transept,  gazing  at  the  six  porcelain 
vases  which  he  had  just  placed  on  the  altar,  and 
from  which  arose  six  gold  palms  with  roses  of  gold. 
He  noticed  that  he  had  turned  one  of  the  palms 
wrong  side  forward,  and  he  shrugged  his  shoul- 
ders higher  than  was  necessary,  letting  the  cord 
of  the  bell  slip  as  he  abused  himself.  "  Idiot,  the 
one  time  that  you  take  them  from  the  cupboard, 
not  to  place  them  facing  right!  Are  any  of  the 
parishioners  of  Monsieur  le  Cure  coming  to-day? 
At  Easter  I  counted  ninety-two.  Yes,  and  some 
famous  unbelievers  among  them!  They  come  at 
Easter,  All-Saints',  and  to  funerals.  But  for 
Quasimodo  Sunday!  Ah!  Monsieur  le  Cure  may 
as  well  delay  his  mass  and  let  me  ring.  I  see 
him  making  signs  to  me!  Courage,  Padovan! 
What  good  does  it  do?  There  are  seven  in  the 
church.  Poor  cure  of  Fonteneilles ! " 
The  chorister  buttoned  his  short  red  cassock 

157 


158    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

slowly  in  the  sacristy;  Abbe  Roubiaux  put  on 
his  vestments;  the  flame  of  the  wax  tapers 
ascended  in  the  daylight,  and  they  would  have 
been  hardly  visible  if  the  wind,  slipping  through 
the  crannies  of  the  windows,  through  the  doors, 
through  the  holes  of  the  vaulted  roof,  had  not 
blown  down  their  tongues  of  yellow  light,  and  made 
a  little  whirlwind  of  smoke  at  their  ends  which 
showed  the  presence  and  the  life  of  fire.  "Good 
people,"  sang  the  bells,  " Christ  has  risen!  He  has 
suffered,  He  has  returned  to  life!  Do  like  Him; 
come,  ye  despised,  ye  humble,  ye  unhappy,  which 
means  all  the  world,  and  take  the  new  life  over 
which  death  shall  not  prevail!  Come!  I  called 
your  fathers  and  they  came.  I  now  call  you." 
In  the  tower  with  its  flattened  vaults,  a  mere 
block  of  masonry  lighted  by  the  three  east  win- 
dows of  the  choir;  in  this  fragment  left  from  a 
larger  church  of  which  the  nave  had  been  taken 
away,  the  sound  of  the  bells  clashed  in  confused 
echoes,  like  spirals  of  smoke  which  mount  and 
mingle.  They  spread  their  appeal  abroad, 
and  there,  without  struggle,  in  the  great  open 
heavens,  the  glorious  waves  of  music  soared ;  they 
unfolded  in  sonorous  wreaths,  above  the  houses 
and  the  grass  and  the  half-clothed  woods,  and 
the  waters  which  heard  their  clear  call  and  shivered 
to  their  depths.  But  the  men  did  not  come. 

When  the  cure"  came  out  of  the  sacristy  and 
took  his  place  at  the  altar  he  had,  for  his  whole 
congregation,  four  women  and  one  child,  the  little 
Elie  Gombaud,  son  of  the  socialist  lock-keeper, 
Pere  Dixneuf,  retired  sergeant  of  Zouaves,  Mi- 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    159 

chel  de  Meximieu,  his  valet,  and  the  sacristan 
Padovan,  who  chanted:  "Quasi  modo  geniti  in- 
fantes, alleluia,  rationabile,  sine  dolo  lac  concupis- 
cite,  alleluia,  alleluia,  alleluia." 

Where  were  those  who  did  not  sing  the  halle- 
lujah? Some  were  working,  as  if  their  fatigue  of 
six  days  did  not  need  the  divine  rest  of  the  sev- 
enth; they  were  breaking  the  clods  in  a  field  or 
working  at  a  carpenter's  bench  or  heating  red  hot 
the  iron  hoop  of  a  cart  wheel.  Still  others,  the 
greater  number,  had  already  gone  to  the  taverns, 
either  those  of  the  village  or  of  the  neighbour- 
ing towns,  and  they  were  drinking  bad  alcohol 
which  burned  into  their  veins,  and  were  exchang- 
ing remarks  that  had  no  joy  or  healthy  pleasure 
in  them;  only  complaints,  threats,  gossip,  jokes 
which  reeked  with  hatred,  vulgarity  or  wanton- 
ness. Others,  unoccupied,  seated  in  their  houses, 
before  the  fire,  were  waiting  until  the  hour  of  eat- 
ing should  come  or  until  the  father  or  the  master 
should  come  in  and  they  could  go  out  like  him 
and  drink.  Young  girls  were  dressing  for  the 
ball,  braiding  or  curling  their  hair,  and  thinking 
of  the  gayeties  of  past  Sundays,  enjoying  the  ex- 
citement which  the  memory  awoke  in  them. 
The  school-teacher,  Secretary  of  the  Mayor's 
office,  was  trying  to  estimate,  for  the  official  sta- 
tistics, the  number  of  geese,  hens,  ducks,  swine, 
and  turkeys  of  the  country,  and  he  varied  the 
figures  pleasantly  by  consulting  the  columns  of 
preceding  years,  diminishing  or  increasing,  with 
an  amused  smile,  the  animal  wealth  of  the  dis- 
trict. A  farm  hand,  a  former  miner  who  came  from 


160    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

Calvados,  where  he  quarrelled  with  his  father  who 
had  reproached  him  for  extravagance,  was  saying, 
at  that  very  hour,  to  his  master,  the  farmer  of 
Semelin:  "Give  me  twenty-five  francs.  I  need 
to  go  and  buy  some  boots  at  Saint-Saulge."  And 
he  set  out,  resolved  not  to  buy  the  boots  but  to 
spend  the  twenty-five  francs.  It  was  the  fourth 
pair  of  boots  which  he  had  bought  in  that  way 
since  the  beginning  of  the  year.  Four  young  men, 
carrying  a  fishing  net  and  lines,  were  starting  off 
to  poach  in  the  pond;  a  lock-keeper,  exhausted 
from  having  opened  the  lock  five  times  in  the 
night,  between  Saturday  and  Sunday,  for  the 
boats  from  Berri  which  came  up  the  Nivernais 
canal,  was  snoring  on  the  sheets  of  his  unmade 
bed,  while  his  wife,  worn  by  fever,  bloodless, 
exhausted  by  the  weariness  of  a  life  without  rest 
or  hope,  was  dressing,  washing,  and  scolding  the 
five  children  who  were  crying  in  the  foul  air  of  the 
room.  Others  were  going  off  on  their  bicycles  to 
see  some  women.  The  entire  population,  unem- 
ployed for  a  day,  was  seeking  to  escape  from  their 
ordinary  condition,  and,  but  little  able  to  succeed, 
envied  all  wealth  as  the  sovereign  power,  the 
wealth  of  the  woods,  of  the  chateau,  and  that 
which  is  described  in  the  continued  story  or 
told  about  in  books.  The  comparison  grew 
sharper  in  solitude  or  in  talk  with  others.  The 
inmost  nature  of  the  human  beast,  vain  and  vio- 
lent, betrayed  itself  in  words,  gestures,  and 
glances.  They  hated  everything,  more  or  less. 
An  unknown  passer-by  who  might  have  crossed 
the  market  town  at  that  moment  would  have 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    161 

been  hated;  legendary  names  were  pronounced 
and  saluted  with  curses  and  contempt;  the  no- 
bles, Louis  XIV.,  Rothschild,  likewise  the  Gov- 
ernment which  pays  poorly  and  which  they  were 
beginning  to  want  to  replace  by  another  govern- 
ment which  would  pay  better  for  less  work,  and, 
if  it  were  possible,  which  would  pay  all  their  ex- 
penses, comforts,  pleasures,  in  the  town,  in  the 
province,  and  everywhere,  without  any  one  being 
forced  to  work  at  all.  Ugly  girls  thought  that  with 
a  thirty-franc  hat  they  would  have  been  pretty. 
This  gross  and  impossible  dream  brutalized  the 
souls  of  many  who  would  have  been  proud  and 
strong  if  they  had  been  taught. 

Such  was  the  rural  Sunday,  a  masterpiece  of 
ennui  when  worship  has  gone  out  of  it. 

The  cure  said  mass  and  he  suffered  unspeak- 
ably, feeling  the  solitude  behind  him,  around  him, 
everywhere!  The  solitude  of  the  church,  empty 
of  the  faithful;  the  solitude  of  souls,  empty  of  the 
grace  of  God.  And  this  was  a  corner  of  France! 

When  mass  was  finished,  Abbe*  Roubiaux  was 
so  pale  that  old  Perrine,  the  last  spinner  of  the 
town,  seeing  him  reenter  the  sacristy,  tottering, 
his  eyes  downcast,  said  half  aloud : 

"They  have  sent  us  a  cure*  who  is  like  my 
wool;  he  cannot  stand.  I  thought  these  Mor- 
vandians  had  more  backbone!" 

He  could  barely  return  thanks.  His  head  in  his 
hands  and  alone  beneath  the  vault  of  the  tower, 
where  the  bells  rested  motionless,  he  heard  neither 
the  cries  of  the  street  boys  playing  on  the  square, 
nor  the  feet  of  the  pigeons  scratching  the  tiles  of  the 


162    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

roof  in  passing ;  he  only  heard  his  own  soul  which 
tossed  itself  from  one  end  of  the  horizon  to  the 
other  and  from  the  past  to  the  future,  like  mut- 
tering thunder,  and  which  cried:  "What  have 
they  done,  those  who  had  the  charge  of  preaching 
the  gospel  here?  Is  it  possible  that  six  priests 
have  been  here  during  a  century  and  have  not 
stirred  these  ashes?  Have  they  accepted  it? 
Have  they  also  been  seized  with  this  sleep  of 
death?  Or  have  they  indeed  lived  five  years,  ten 
years,  twenty  years  in  the  sorrow  that  I  am  feel- 
ing? My  God!  How  horrible  is  this  desert  of 
souls!  What  would  I  not  give  to  return  to 
Morvan!  To  be  carried  on  wings  to  Vendee,  Au- 
vergne,  Brittany,  to  the  plains  of  the  North,  no 
matter  where,  provided  it  was  where  there  were 
living  souls,  around  a  living  God!  The  hallelujah 
has  fallen  into  space.  Sins  hold  the  country  and 
keep  it  from  singing.  0  my  predecessors,  I  ad- 
mire you,  after  all,  for  having  been  able  to  live 
where  I  stifle.  You,  at  least,  began  your  work 
and  attempted  something.  And  I,  who  blame 
you,  what  have  I  done?  I  have  waited  in  the 
presbytery,  watching  the  hours  which  have  struck 
in  solitude.  What  a  mistake!  During  the  six 
months  that  I  have  been  cure  of  Fonteneilles  I 
have  felt,  in  secret,  between  You  and  me,  my 
God,  much  love  for  them,  but  I  have  not  told  it 
enough!  It  is  not  possible  that  there  is  nothing 
living!  I  must  have  the  power  to  resuscitate  it 
since  my  Master  has.  I  will  go.  God  shall  go  out 
of  His  temple.  I  will  speak  to  the  first  of  my 
parishioners  whom  I  meet.  I  would  like  so  much 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    163 

to  know  them!  But  we  have  no  tie  in  common 
except  the  church  where  they  no  longer  come. 
Nothing  in  common!  Neither  the  wine  shop,  nor 
the  woods,  nor  the  farm.  If  some  one  would  help 
me !  This  young  Monsieur  de  Meximieu?  I  have 
made  him  only  one  call.  I  have  kept  away  from 
the  chateaux  because  the  cottages  are  jealous. 
No,  I  must  go  alone.  I  am  alone ;  I  will  bring  them 
my  sacred  merchandise,  which  is  peace.  Will 
they  listen  to  me?  It  is  not  insult  which  I  ought 
to  fear  so  much  as  this  silence  around  me.  Have 
mercy,  Lord!" 

His  face  wet  with  tears,  he  rose,  wiped  his  eyes 
with  the  towel  hung  in  the  sacristy  by  the  side  of 
the  holy-water  font  of  green  faience,  and  he 
opened  the  door  of  the  tower.  Between  the  first 
step  and  the  wall  a  bit  of  wall-flower  had  pushed 
through.  It  bowed  its  head  to  the  wind,  under 
the  feet  of  the  abbe,  who  understood  the  caress 
of  the  flower  and  said : 

"I  thank  you  for  greeting  me;  men  have  not 
done  as  much." 

He  crossed  the  square;  it  was  empty.  Behind 
the  windows  of  the  inns  some  tipplers  were  watch- 
ing him  and  were  talking  about  him  as  they  would 
have  done  about  any  other  object  that  was  still 
new  to  them. 

The  cure"  did  not  even  see  them.  The  parsonage 
was  there  close  by,  in  front  of  the  church,  on  the 
other  side  of  the  road.  Abbe"  Roubiaux  opened 
the  latticed  gate,  once  white,  now  grimy  with  the 
touch  of  many  hands,  took  a  few  steps  in  the 
alley  which,  perpendicular  to  the  road,  ran  along 


164    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

the  side  of  the  house  and,  as  he  passed  before  the 
kitchen  door,  was  almost  run  into  by  a  boy  who 
came  out  running  with  his  head  down  and  an 
empty  basket  on  his  arm. 

Upon  seeing  the  abbe  the  child  stopped  short, 
lifting  up  his  freckled,  lively,  open  countenance 
which,  like  a  round  apple,  reflected  all  the  light 
falling  upon  it. 

The  cure"  gazed  for  a  moment  at  the  boy  as  if 
he  were  looking  at  a  cherry  tree  in  bloom,  a  pict- 
ure by  Raphael,  a  new  church,  a  glacier,  or  the 
sea  which  he  loved  without  having  seen  it.  He 
rested  his  sick  soul  upon  this  little  curly-headed 
urchin  who  had  neither  the  wickedness  of  grown- 
up persons  nor  their  hardness  of  heart.  At  least 
he  thought  so.  He  did  not  ask  him  from  whom 
he  came,  nor  for  what  he  had  come,  nor  what  his 
name  was.  But,  while  the  child  waited,  quite 
ready  to  reply  correctly  to  these  expected  ques- 
tions, he  placed  his  hand  on  his  forehead  and 
with  the  thumb  slowly  and  reverently  traced  the 
sign  of  the  cross. 

The  little  ,one  understood  that  that  meant: 
"Go,  blessed  little  one!"  and  he  ran  off  saying: 

" Good-day,  Monsieur  le  Cure"." 

The  gate  banged  behind  him. 

"A  sacre  gamin  whom  his  mother  sent  to  collect 
Easter  eggs,"  said  the  servant  appearing  on  the 
threshold  of  the  kitchen;  "she  asked  for  eggs,  the 
wretched  beggar,  because  her  oldest  son  in  time 
past  was  a  chorister.  Ah!  I  settled  him,  the 
young  rogue!" 

"You  were  wrong,  Philomene." 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    165 

"Yes,  I  know  it,  they  might  eat  your  bread 
from  your  plate,  and  you  would  say  nothing;  one 
sees  plainly  that  you  do  not  belong  here.  Ah! 
You  will  not  change  them!  Will  you  have  your 
dinner?  It  is  ready." 

"Not  yet,  Philomene.  I  am  going  to  my  room. 
I  will  let  you  know  when  I  am  hungry." 

He  went  upstairs,  crushed  again  by  the  heavy 
trouble  which  the  sight  of  the  child  had  lifted  for 
a  moment,  and,  once  in  his  room,  he  seated  him- 
self before  a  table  of  pine  wood  on  which  there 
was  only  a  writing  pad,  a  bottle  of  ink,  and  a 
breviary,  and  he  hid  his  head  on  the  table  be- 
tween his  folded  arms.  He  neither  slept  nor  wept. 
Soon  he  sat  up.  His  thin  face,  with  its  Creole 
eyes,  dark  complexion,  wide  ears  frosted  by  the 
north  wind,  and  the  heavy  jaw  of  the  eater  of 
hard  bread,  had  regained  its  daily  expression; 
serious,  naive,  and  eager.  He  gazed  before  him  at 
a  photograph  fastened  upon  the  white  wall,  of 
a  little  old  woman,  all  hooded  in  black,  whose 
wrinkled  face  still  kept  the  eyes  of  a  child. 
"Good-day,  mother!"  he  said,  "I  am  going  to 
write  to  you!" 

He  tore  from  the  pad  a  sheet  of  white  paper 
lined  with  pale  blue  and  let  his  pen  run  on: 

April  22,  1906,  Quasimodo  Sunday. 

"MOTHER:  I  am  sad,  I  would  like  to  leave  here 
and  to  see  you  and  get  a  breath  of  air  from  the 
snow  of  our  mountains.  I  can  see  you.  At  the 
hour  at  which  I  am  writing,  the  bells  are  ringing, 
as  here,  for  the  end  of  mass,  but  they  have  an 


166    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

answer  in  the  clatter  of  wooden  shoes  upon  the 
frozen  earth.  You  are  going  also,  little  mother; 
you  have  pulled  your  black  hood  down  over  your 
forehead;  you  are  coming  out  of  the  church,  the 
last  one  as  usual;  you  are  thinking  of  your  son, 
the  abbe,  of  the  little  Henri,  whom  you  used  to 
lead  by  the  hand,  and  who  has  gone  down,  all 
alone,  far  from  the  village  of  Glux-en-Glaine,  to 
try  to  convert  the  people  of  the  plain  of  Nievre. 
You  are  crossing  the  square;  all  our  friends  are 
there,  that  is  to  say,  all  the  parish;  men,  women, 
children,  not  one  would  be  willing  to  miss  the 
mass;  it  is  very  cold;  the  wind  from  Preneley 
whistles,  and  in  the  forest,  as  in  the  bourg,  on  ac- 
count of  the  snow,  the  path  is  only  wide  enough 
for  one  person.  Everybody  walks  in  single  file. 
You,  mother,  enter  your  house,  the  smallest,  but 
which  has  been  the  happiest  one  of  Glux-en- 
Glaine  in  the  days  when  we  were  there  together. 
I  feel  sad,  mother!  I  have  left  you  for  these 
people  of  Fonteneilles  who  do  not  dislike  me,  but 
who  live  only  for  the  world.  I  have  gained  no 
hold  over  them  during  seven  months  that  I  have 
been  their  cure.  My  courage  fails  me  on  account 
of  the  isolation  in  which  I  live.  And  I  have  re- 
ceived the  holy  unction  and  I  am  responsible  for 
all  the  faults,  all  the  failures,  all  the  despairing 
deaths,  which  I  should  have  been  able  to  prevent 
or  to  console !  There  were  seven  at  high  mass  this 
morning!  Everything  lowers  them;  their  nature, 
their  ignorance  and  their  reading  which  fosters  it; 
the  air  is  full  of  falsehood,  even  to  the  easy  sale  of 
their  cattle.  You  can  understand  what  I  suffer, 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    167 

mother.  There  are  many  mothers  like  you,  who 
have  the  soul  of  a  priest  and  who  have  bestowed 
it  on  their  children.  So  when  you  receive  my 
letter  you  will  begin  to  pray  for  me.  I  know  what 
you  will  do.  I  believe  you  are  powerful  with  God 
and  with  the  world  because  you  represent  the 
good  poverty.  Give  me  your  help!  I  am  trying 
to  find  out  where  to  begin.  Wait;  I  remember 
how,  in  my  childhood,  on  wash  days,  you  would 
stand  there  before  the  bundle  of  linen  brought 
back  from  the  river,  which  had  to  be  "  spread 
out"  to  the  sun;  you  were  discouraged  by  the 
labour  before  you;  so  many  trips  to  make,  so 
many  times  to  stoop  over,  to  pick  yourself  up  and 
to  lift  your  arms,  and  you  would  say:  'Henri, 
I  do  not  know  where  to  begin  my  work;  I  have 
too  much  to  do!'  Poor  mother!  Your  little  boy 
was  not  much  help  to  you.  When  I  had  driven 
two  stakes  in  the  grass  behind  the  house,  I  felt 
myself  full  of  glory  and  laid  down  on  the  grass. 
Mother,  I  have  not  even  that  much  help.  No  one 
has  driven  a  single  stake  for  me.  Send  me  a 
letter  and  put  in  it  a  little  of  your  courage.  I  am 
better  already.  I  feel  myself  stronger,  just  from 
having  written  to  you.  I  love  you  with  all  my 
heart,  mother.  And  do  not  think  me  discour- 
aged. I  only  needed  to  weep  near  you." 

"HENRI  ROUBIAUX." 

The  abbe"  slipped  the  letter  in  an  envelope, 
sought  for  a  stamp  among  some  pictures  in  a 
pasteboard  box,  and •  descended  the  stairway 
which  groaned  always  just  as  we  do  under  even 


168    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

the  smallest  burden.  As  he  passed  by  the  kitchen 
he  said : 

"Philomene,  you  can  reheat  the  soup  now. 
I  am  going  to  mail  a  letter." 

"Your  soup  will  be  fine,  indeed;  it  is  like 
pudding!" 

The  abbe,  bareheaded,  crossed  the  garden  and 
then  obliquely  the  little  square,  to  the  box  be- 
neath the  window  of  the  tobacco  shop.  As  he 
was  returning  he  saw  on  the  left,  going  past  the 
corner  of  the  wall,  a  man  of  tall  stature  and  a 
blond  beard,  who  lifted  his  hat  and  put  it  back 
with  an  indifferent  gesture. 

He  went  toward  him. 

"How  do  you  do,  Gilbert  Cloquet?" 

"Not  entirely  well,  but  better,  thank  you, 
Monsieur  le  Cure;  you  are  very  kind." 

"I  passed  by  Pas-du-Loup  a  month  ago,  and  I 
asked  to  see  you,  but  Mere  Justamond  told  me 
you  were  sleeping." 

"That  would  have  been  worth  waking  me  up 
for,  Monsieur  le  Cure;  but  the  good  woman  is  like 
a  dog  when  she  is  watching  any  one;  no  one  must 
come  near." 

Abbe  Roubiaux  hesitated  a  moment,  instinc- 
tively seeking  for  a  word  which  would  not  be  a  too 
definite  and  too  frank  expression  of  his  sorrow 
and  of  his  reproach.  But  his  heart  overflowed. 
He  said,  clasping  his  hands  under  his  cassock: 

"If  I  am  not  mistaken,  Gilbert  Cloquet,  you 
were  not  at  mass  Easter  Sunday!  And  certainly 
you  were  not  there  this  morning." 

"That  is  so." 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    169 

"Nevertheless,  you  belong  to  my  parish." 

"But  what  do  you  expect!  It  is  a  long  time 
since  I  have  been  there!  It  is  no  longer  our  cus- 
tom here." 

The  abbe*  let  his  hands  fall,  opened  them  and 
held  them  out  as  if  imploring  the  wood-cutter: 

"Ah,  my  friend!  What  martyrdom  it  is  to 
be  the  representative  here  of  God,  whom  every 
one  forgets,  whom  no  one  loves  any  more!" 

The  workman  was  stirred  by  this  grief;  he  gave 
a  little  start,  shook  his  head,  and  said  simply: 

"Come,  now,  Monsieur  le  Cure,  you  must  not 
worry  yourself  over  so  small  a  matter;  we  do  not 
go  to  mass  any  more,  but  all  the  same  we  are  not 
wicked  people.  Come,  compose  yourself;  the  old 
cure  became  used  to  us;  you  will  do  the  same." 

He  felt  himself  looked  at  by  eyes  like  those  of 
the  Christ  nailed  to  the  cross.  Never  had  any  one 
looked  at  him  like  that  before.  Something  inti- 
mate and  vague  was  touched  in  him  and  leaped 
like  the  child  of  a  woman,  and  he  understood  that 
it  was  his  life  itself,  the  very  depths  of  his  soul 
which  never  saw  the  light,  which  had  been 
reached  by  this  glance.  He  was  embarrassed. 
He  reached  his  hand  out  to  his  cure  to  take  leave. 

"Do  not  trouble  yourself  so  about  us,"  he  said; 
"I  understand  you  just  the  same;  it  is  the  way  I 
feel  when  the  work  does  not  go  right;  there  is 
trouble  for  everybody  in  this  world,  one  can't 
help  thinking.  Good-night,  Monsiror  le  Cure. 
Good-by." 

And  he  went  on  again  up  the  uope  while  the 
cure"  reentered  the  parsonage.  F  >r  the  first  hun- 


170    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

dred  yards  he  thought  only  of  this  meeting  with 
the  cure  of  Fonteneilles.  Once,  even,  he  turned 
around  toward  the  parsonage,  of  which  he  could 
only  see  a  dormer  window  and  the  roof,  tapering 
into  the  garden,  and  the  boundary  wall  covered 
with  the  pale  wistaria. 

"He  is  a  good  man,  this  Morvandian,"  he  mur- 
mured, "he  has  a  heart  as  tender  as  a  woman. 
If  my  dead  mother  had  been  there,  she  would 
have  spoken  to  me  just  as  he  did." 

He  went  on  up  between  the  houses  of  the  vil- 
lage. A  comrade  spoke  to  him,  then  another,  and 
another,  and  new  ideas  drove  away  for  a  time 
the  memory  of  his  words  with  Abbe  Roubiaux. 

Quite  at  the  end  of  the  village  Gilbert  entered 
a  very  poor  house,  a  hovel  crushed  under  a 
thatched  roof  which,  from  one  rafter  to  the  other, 
sank  down  and  formed  a  gutter.  A  young  man 
who  had  just  finished  eating  was  seated  before  a 
table  of  old  cherry  wood,  notched  by  knives  and 
worn  by  the  hands,  elbows,  dishes  and  dish-towels 
of  two  or  three  generations.  A  woman,  a  fresh- 
looking  brunette  whose  cheeks  were  red  as  if  she 
had  just  been  angry  or  weeping,  was  drying  the 
table  with  a  circular  movement,  resting  her  two 
hands  upon  the  rolled  dish-towel.  Her  husband 
bent  his  head  and  finished  eating  a  mouthful  of 
bread;  by  his  side  there  was  still  a  bottle  half 
full,  and  a  plate  on  which  round  bits  of  potato 
were  swimming  in  vinegar  and  oil. 

"Good-day,  Durge!  You  seem  to  have  no 
more  ragout  to  eat  than  I  do!" 

The  young  man  raised  his  small  head,  covered 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    171 

to  the  ears  with  a  great  soft  felt  hat.  Durge, 
very  young,  very  hopeful,  with  shoulders  which 
fell  back  squarely  and  easily  when  he  stood  up, 
had  a  sandy,  curly  beard  under  his  chin,  a  short, 
young  moustache,  very  red  lips,  a  nose  too  short 
and  a  low  forehead ;  he  could  not  be  called  hand- 
some, but  his  straightforward  glance,  clear  as  a 
current  of  water  without  pebbles  or  mud,  told  of 
strength  and  simplicity.  He  was  a  primitive  man. 
One  could  read,  in  his  eyes  full  of  energy  in  repose, 
that  the  man  had  only  one  word,  one  sentiment, 
one  idea  at  a  time,  and  that  he  would  be  a  power, 
absolutely  devoted  to  those  who  should  win  his 
affection  and  dominate  his  mind.  He  answered  the 
mocking  greeting  of  Cloquet,  saying: 

"The  Spring  is  not  good.  If  the  work  in  the 
woods  does  not  come  in  May,  I  don't  think  that 
we  shall  have  anything  to  raise  the  family  which 
is  coming." 

He  smiled  in  a  way  which  lighted  up  his  rustic 
face,  and,  with  a  movement  of  his  eyes,  he  indi- 
cated his  young  wife  whose  figure  was  heavy. 

"It  is  evident,"  replied  Gilbert  Cloquet,  laugh- 
ing also.  ' '  But  I  tell  you,  Durge",  the  misfortune  of 
misfortunes  is  that  there  is  no  longer  hay  to  cut." 

"No!    Machines  everywhere!" 

"Except  with  Monsieur  Michel.  Why,  I  have 
cut  his  hay  since  I  left  La  Vigie,  for  more  than 
twenty  years.  What  would  you  say  if  I  got  you 
engaged  there?" 

"I  should  say  thanks!  But  you  are  mistaken, 
my  friend!  They  are  all  alike;  he  is  going  to  buy 
a  mower." 


172    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

"Tonnere!"  cried  Gilbert,  approaching  as  if  he 
were  going  to  throw  himself  upon  Durge.  "  What 
did  you  say?" 

"What  I  know." 

"He  has  never  had  one." 

"He  is  going  to  have  one." 

"No.  He  would  not  want  to  take  my  work 
from  me.  Twelve  days  of  good  pay!  It  is  not 
possible,  Durge." 

"It  is,"  said  the  young  man,  bending  to  tell 
the  story,  and  making  the  gesture  of  the  story- 
teller, his  elbows  resting  upon  his  knees,  his  hands 
free,  his  head  stretching  forward.  "At  the  March 
fair,  he  met  the  mowing-machine  merchant,  and 
some  one  heard  him  asking  the  price :  '  How  much 
for  the  large  model?  How  much  for  the  American 
make?  For  yours?'  Is  that  a  proof,  Cloquet,  or 
do  you  want  me  to  tell  you  something  more?" 

"I  want  you  to  come  with  me!  We  will  go  to 
find  Monsieur  Michel,  he  will  listen  to  us;  I  know 
him.  No,  I  answer  for  it  that  it  is  a  false- 
hood." 

Durge*,  without  rising,  looked  at  his  young  wife 
who  had  grown  grave  as  she  listened  to  the  talk 
of  the  men.  She  said,  very  low,  squeezing  the 
linen  between  her  hands  as  if  it  were  the  gain  of 
the  twelve  days  which  they  wished  to  take  from 
her: 

"You  must  go,  but  you  must  not  give  way 
about  the  price!" 

"Don't  fear!"  said  her  husband,  whose  eyes 
suddenly  grew  fiery.  "You  know  me!" 

In  a  moment  the  two  men  were  together  on  the 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    173 

threshold;  together  they  touched  the  brims  of 
their  hats  out  of  respect  to  the  woman  who,  from 
inside  the  house,  followed  them  with  her  glance, 
thinking  of  the  things  of  the  coming  summer ;  then 
they  disappeared  in  a  path  which  led  around  the 
village  and  which  rejoined  the  road  a  little  lower 
down.  They  were  of  the  same  height,  but  the 
elder  man  was  straighter  and  slenderer;  he  had 
a  natural  grace  in  his  bearing,  such  as  you  see 
sometimes  among  the  trees  in  the  forest. 

"If  you  are  willing,"  he  said,  "we  will  take 
Dixneuf  with  us;  he  is  one  of  the  older  ones  who 
counts,  like  myself,  on  the  hay  of  the  chateau. 
He  also  has  mowed  there  for  twenty-two  years." 

The  young  man  replied  with  a  nod  of  assent. 
Before  them,  at  the  foot  of  the  slope,  there  were 
only  meadows  where  the  grass  was  already  grow- 
ing thick  and  glossy;  each  particle  of  earth,  like 
a  vase  too  narrow,  held  its  flower  or  its  green 
sheaf;  beneath,  the  water  flowed  invisible,  and 
above,  the  brilliant  rays  of  the  sun  and  the  breath 
of  the  wind  passed  over  them,  unfolding  leaves, 
petals,  and  stalks,  all  full  of  sap.  The  men  cal- 
culated the  ground  which  the  grass  covered  and 
the  depth  of  the  spaces  that  ran  back  into  the 
forest.  The  memory  of  the  last  hay-making  came 
to  their  minds,  then  they  considered  vaguely  the 
tops  of  the  trees,  still  red  with  the  resin  of  the 
buds,  but  pale  in  spots,  where  the  poorer  soil  had 
kept  back  the  oaks  of  the  forest.  The  hamlet  of 
Pas-du-Loup  was  hidden  some  hundred  yards 
from  the  skirts  of  the  forest.  Gilbert  and  Durge 
went  around  the  chateau  and  roused  Dixneuf, 


174    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

whom  they  found  at  home  sleeping  in  the  corner 
of  the  chimney  place.  The  old  mason,  notwith- 
standing his  apprenticeship,  had  never  been  en- 
gaged in  building  the  houses  or  in  repairing  the 
bridges  of  the  countryside.  He  was  only  em- 
ployed by  the  master-masons  in  times  of  great 
urgency,  when  they  entrusted  him  with  the  care  of 
tempering  the  mortar.  The  man  was  over  sixty. 
He  was  a  patriot,  a  quarrelsome  fellow,  a  little 
deaf,  capable  of  resistance  in  words,  but  sluggish  in 
action  when  the  head  of  the  wood  yard  or  the  work 
did  not  suit  him.  He  was  poor  likewise.  And 
Gilbert  Cloquet  thought  that  Dixneuf,  like  an- 
other older  self,  deserved  to  be  pitied,  helped,  and 
hired  for  the  hay-making. 

The  men,  side  by  side,  walked  up  toward  the 
chateau  of  Fonteneilles,  crossing  the  lawn  which 
separated  it  from  the  forest.  Renard,  lounging 
about  and  full  of  importance  at  the  top  of  the 
terrace,  which  the  sun  had  left  since  noon  to 
lighten  the  other  front  and  the  court  of  the 
house,  perceived  the  group  directing  their  steps 
toward  the  stone  stairway. 

" Hello,  you  fellows!  What  are  you  coming 
for  now?" 

"We  want  to  speak  with  Monsieur  Michel,"  said 
Gilbert,  without  slackening  his  steps. 

"He  is  ill;  he  will  not  be  able  to  see  you.  I  do 
not  know  how  many  tramps  and  day-labourers 
have  already  been  to  see  him;  one  would  think 
that  the  master's  time  belonged  to  everybody!" 

"What  are  you  grumbling  about,  Renard; 
they  have  not  come  to  see  you." 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    175 

Michel,  hearing  the  noise  of  voices,  had  ap- 
peared at  the  corner  of  the  chateau,  at  the  right, 
and  understood  at  once  the  cause  of  the  discus- 
sion. He  was  pale  and  out  of  breath  from  having 
taken  even  those  few  steps. 

He  motioned  to  Gilbert  and  to  the  two  other 
men  saying:  "Come!"  and  turned  back  into  the 
courtyard,  warmer  and  more  furnished  than  the 
terrace.  There  was  a  long  rectangle  there  before 
the  door,  paved  with  tiles,  covered  by  an  iron 
roof  supported  by  three  white  columns.  This 
peristyle,  raised  about  half  a  foot  above  the 
ground,  had  been  built  by  Michel's  grandmother, 
an  old  lady  who  used  to  enjoy  the  warm  shelter 
and  the  wide-spreading  fan  of  the  fields,  which 
slanted  up  toward  the  village,  divided  in  half  by 
the  avenue  of  beech  trees.  Wicker  arm-chairs 
and  garden-chairs  were  ranged  along  the  wall.  Mi- 
chel waited,  standing,  for  the  three  Fonteneilles 
workmen  to  join  him.  Two  of  them,  at  least, 
knew  the  way  well.  They  trod  it  with  a  kind  of 
security  and  pride,  as  if  they  thought:  "Renard 
had  the  worst  of  it.  We  are  more  important 
than  he  is;  besides,  this  is  not  the  first  time  that 
we  have  been  rightly  treated  here." 

All  three  saluted  together,  with  hat  and  head, 
and  Gilbert,  who  took  precedence  over  the  others 
by  virtue  of  being  well  known  and  also  a  ready 
speaker,  asked: 

"They  say  you  are  ill,  Monsieur  Michel.  You 
must  not  receive  us  if  it  disturbs  you." 

The  young  man  shook  the  three  hands  which 
were  held  out  to  him. 


176    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

"Come  just  the  same.  As  long  as  I  am  on  my 
feet  I  shall  be  at  your  service.  What  can  I  do 
for  you?" 

Neither  of  the  three  men  replied  to  this  ques- 
tion which  was  too  abrupt.  They  had  first  to  sit 
down  and  talk  of  unimportant  things.  They  took 
the  chairs  which  Michel  pointed  out  to  them, 
seated  themselves,  uttered  a  few  profound  re- 
marks about  the  weather  and  then  Gilbert,  pulling 
his  tawny  beard  and  looking  at  the  master,  said : 

"Monsieur  Michel,  is  it  true  that  you  have 
thought  of  mowing  with  a  machine?" 

"I  have  thought  of  it,  that  is  true,  Gilbert,  but 
I  have  decided  nothing." 

"You  are  thinking  of  it:  that  is  bad." 

"Why?" 

"Because  it  will  do  us  harm,  Monsieur  Michel. 
Have  I  worked  badly?" 

"And  I,"  said  Dixneuf,  louder.  "Haven't  you 
been  satisfied  with  me  all  these  years?  Since  I 
began  long  ago  to  work  in  your  meadows?" 

"The  workman  must  live,"  added  Durge, 
thrusting  forward  his  young  head  as  if  to  charge 
an  enemy.  "The  machines  steal  the  work  from 
the  workman!" 

"You  will  not  do  that,  Monsieur  Michel?  That 
would  not  be  fair!" 

"Nor  for  your  own  interest,  either!" 

"Nor  for  peace!" 

The  three  voices  became  excited  and  the  men 
drew  their  chairs  nearer  to  Michel's,  who  waited 
and  watched  each  speaker  in  silence. 

"There  are  enough  people  who  have  given  up 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    177 

reaping  by  hand.  You  are  the  only  one  left.  Your 
father  and  your  grandmother  gave  us  work!" 

"Do  not  buy  machines,  Monsieur!  It  is  for 
your  own  interest,  I  warn  you." 

"No,  Durge,"  interrupted  Gilbert;  "you  ought 
to  say  it  is  for  us,  from  friendship  for  us,  to  give 
us  work,  that  we  ask  you  not  to  buy  a  machine." 

"Twelve  days  at  least;  perhaps  fifteen  or 
twenty  lost  days,  if  you  should  do  it!" 

"He  is  right,  Monsieur;  down  with  the  ma- 
chines !  Give  work ! ' ' 

"Yes,  Monsieur,  give  it  to  us!" 

Eager,  and  divided  between  anger  and  the  fear 
of  displeasing  and  the  thought  of  the  days  of  en- 
forced idleness,  the  three  reapers  questioned  the 
owner  of  the  harvest,  and,  if  the  eyes  of  the  two 
older  men  did  not  threaten,  there  was  revolt  and 
defiance  in  the  face  of  the  youngest,  the  red- 
headed Durge. 

They  had  finished  speaking  but  their  mouths 
remained  half  open,  ready  to  protest  or  to  com- 
plain. The  three  men  were  in  the  same  positions, 
only  their  expressions  were  different.  They  were 
bending  forward  as  if  to  receive  their  bread. 

"Listen,  Gilbert,  and  you,  Dixneuf,  and  re- 
member what  I  am  going  to  say  to  you.  For  your 
sake,  who  are  old  friends  of  our  house,  I  will  give 
up  buying  a  machine  this  year,  but  on  one  express 
condition:  the  price  of  the  day's  work  shall  not 
exceed  three  francs." 

"That  is  perfectly  fair,"  said  Gilbert. 

"The  union  is  satisfied  with  that  for  the  Spring 
work,"  said  Dixneuf.  "We  can  agree  on  that." 


178    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

" Three  francs  fifty,"  said  Durge  eagerly. 
"For  hard  work,  like  the  meadows,  we  must 
demand  that  much." 

"I  will  pay  three  francs,  no  more  than  that. 
You  can  calculate  that  ten  reapers,  at  three  francs 
each,  during  fifteen  or  eighteen  days,  is  the  price 
of  the  machine  itself  that  I  am  giving  you.  I  only 
give  up  my  idea  for  your  sake  and  in  your  inter- 
est. For  myself,  I  am  not  doing  a  very  reasonablj 
thing.  But  I  am  willing  to  do  it  because  it  is  to 
your  advantage.  Is  that  understood?" 

"Three  francs  fifty,"  said  Durg£;  "I  won't 
work  for  less." 

"Very  well,  I  engage  only  Gilbert  and  Dixneuf," 
said  Michel,  rising.  "I  am  sorry  to  lose  you, 
Durge",  for  you  are  a  good  workman.  Au  revoir." 

The  two  older  men  were  satisfied  but  they  did 
not  dare  show  it  too  plainly.  Durge",  obstinately 
silent,  with  a  hard  and  insolent  air,  scarcely  nodded 
his  head  in  taking  leave  of  Michel  de  Meximieu. 
The  three  companions  went  up  the  avenue  to- 
gether. They  did  not  begin  to  talk  among  them- 
selves until  they  were  far  from  the  chateau. 
Michel,  who  watched  them  go,  saddened  by  the 
constantly  recurring  discord  which  kept  men's 
spirits  at  variance  much  more  than  mere  money 
questions,  saw  that  the  men  were  arguing,  and 
that  Durge",  who  had  been  constrained  and  dumb 
before,  was  now  gesticulating  violently  between 
the  two  elder  men,  who  were  silent.  "Feeble  and 
rebellious  souls!  What  can  be  done?  And  it  is 
the  whole  world,  all  the  country,  and  all  the 
town!  Did  Gilbert  understand  my  intention, 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    179 

what  was  really  my  generosity?  Perhaps. 
Dixneuf  certainly  did  not  take  it  in  at  all.  Durge* 
carries  away  only  another  argument  against  the 
rich.  He  believes  that  I  wanted  to  exploit  him 
and  is  proud  of  not  having  yielded.  What  words 
can  touch  these  hearts  which  actions  have  no  ef- 
fect upon?  What  is  the  right  way?  Oh,  how 
willingly  would  I  follow  it!  One  would  think 
that  we  belonged  to  another  race  than  theirs. 
There  is  something  between  us,  and  I  do  not 
know  what  to  call  it,  nor  how  to  break  through 
it.  I  hoped,  by  yielding,  to  make  a  sacrifice 
worthy  of  acknowledgment." 

He  glanced  down  the  deserted  avenue. 

"What  does  it  matter  to  me,  after  all?  My 
duty  will  not  last.  Others  will  accomplish  the 
hard  task  which  I  have  scarcely  begun,  and — 
Others!" 

A  vision  rose  in  his  mind,  that  of  a  girl  with 
hair  of  two  shades  of  gold.  He  saw  her  there, 
close  to  him,  in  the  gravel  court  of  the  chateau, 
and  he  had  such  power  of  imagination,  so  perfect 
a  memory  of  objects  and  colours  and  motions 
that  it  was  really  Antoinette  Jacquemin  who 
passed  by  without  looking  at  him  on  her  way 
toward  the  servants'  quarters  and  the  farm,  and 
was  greeted  from  a  distance  by  the  men  who 
were  ploughing  the  field  in  front  of  the  chateau, 
as  the  one  on  whom  all  the  future  of  the  estate 
depended. 

"Others  will  take  my  place,  and  they  will  re- 
member me  but  rarely!" 

He  began  to  weep,  buried  in  the  rough  arm- 


180    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

chair,  his  eyes  closed,  certain  that  no  one  would 
be  a  witness  of  his  weakness. 

Michel  de  Meximieu  knew  that  he  was  very  ill. 
Since  his  boyhood  he  had  had  trouble  with  his 
heart,  unsuspected  or  not  admitted  by  the  physi- 
cians, and  which  the  violent  emotions  of  the  last 
months  had  aggravated.  On  his  return  from 
Paris,  troubled  by  attacks  of  suffocation  and  the 
extreme  feverish  weakness  which  they  left  behind 
and  which  his  will  was  no  longer  able  to  control 
as  before,  he  had  consulted  doctors  at  Corbigny 
and  at  Nevers.  The  first  had  said:  "It  is  noth- 
ing; but  not  too  much  anxiety,  not  too  much 
imagination!"  A  second,  when  Michel  insisted 
that  he  wished  to  know,  had  been  less  discreet, 
and  the  conversation  had  ended  with  these 
words : 

"I  must  know  whether  I  shall  live.  I  am  one  of 
those  who  prefer  to  know  the  enemy,  and  I  hope 
to  face  it  squarely.  Tell  me  the  truth." 

"Well,  then,  Monsieur,  with  your  trouble, 
a  happy  man  like  you  may  live  a  long  time." 

"And  if  I  were  not  happy?" 

The  physician  was  silent. 

"Then  I  am  lost." 

He  had  pronounced  his  own  sentence.  But 
the  next  day,  even  that  very  evening,  and  every 
day  since  then  he  had  refused  to  believe  it.  It 
rose  before  him  and  he  chased  it  away.  It  re- 
turned, and  then  to  convict  it  of  falsehood,  he 
called  for  help  to  his  youth  which  wished  to  live; 
his  noble  ambition  which  should  give  him  the 
right  of  life;  this  effort  to  lift  and  help  all  the 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    181 

degraded  country  people.  A  fierce  struggle, 
without  witnesses,  without  a  friend,  without  a 
comfort  of  any  kind,  which  he  had  to  leave  at  any 
moment,  to  give  an  order,  or  to  receive  a  farmer, 
an  overseer  or  a  visit.  It  was  often  renewed. 
A  thousand  reasons  incessantly  renewed,  cried 
out  around  him:  "You  are  going  to  die  without 
being  of  any  use,  Michel  de  Meximieu,  and  noth- 
ing will  be  accomplished  of  all  that  you  have 
dreamed."  These  crises  were  brought  on  by  physi- 
cal suffering ;  by  the  memory  of  conversations  that 
he  had  had  in  the  smoking-room,  or  at  Paris,  with 
his  father;  by  the  bitter  thought  of  Vaucreuse 
and  of  Antoinette  Jacquemin;  by  the  sight  of  the 
fields  and  the  forests  which  were  soon  to  pass  into 
other  hands,  or  as  just  now,  by  an  ungrateful 
reply  from  the  men,  or  a  refusal  to  compromise, 
which  showed  how  sick  with  hatred  were  their 
hearts. 

Sunday  had  scattered  the  labourers.  The  heat 
kept  them  away.  Michel  was  suffering.  The 
hours  passed. 

But  he  had  reached  that  point  when  pain,  for 
a  long  time  cursed,  is  at  last  accepted  and  begins 
at  once  to  lose  its  power.  This  long  Spring  after- 
noon, the  solitude,  the  stillness,  these  tears  which 
were  drying  on  a  countenance  whose  energy  they 
had  not  effaced,  and  which  began  to  recover  a 
calm  smile,  were  all  the  visible  signs  of  a  great 
victory:  a  man  who  had  accepted  death!  He 
found  himself  again  in  the  spirit  of  his  fathers, 
soldiers  and  men  of  deep  faith.  He  was  more 
courageous  than  all  the  others.  He  no  longer 


182    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

trembled  for  himself,  and  he  had  the  whole  earth 
beneath  his  feet.  He  said:  " Enough  tears!  I 
will  shed  no  more.  This  is  the  tenth  time  that 
I  have  wept  for  myself.  It  is  nine  too  many. 
Happily  I  have  realized  to-day  that  there  is  in 
my  suffering  a  regret  that  I  did  not  sacrifice  my- 
self— that  grief  I  shall  take  with  me.  These  poor 
souls  so  rarely  have  any  one  who  will  give  him- 
self entirely  for  them.  What  an  admirable  feu- 
dality the  world  might  be.  A  sovereign  soul,  that 
is  to  say,  a  saint  in  every  quarter  to  defend  the 
timid!  A  warrior!  A  citadel!  They  will  have 
the  abbe"  at  Fonteneilles.  Yes,  I  have  faith.  And 
then,  who  knows  from  what  thicket  the  lily  of  the 
valley  springs,  a  single  stalk  of  which  fills  the  whole 
woods  around  with  perfume  ?  No  one  knows.  It 
springs  up  from  the  dead  mould.  From  among 
themselves  a  redeemer  may  rise  up.  There  will 
be  need  of  one,  a  man  of  the  poor,  to  lift  up  the 
poor.  And  it  is  for  that,  perhaps,  that  I  am  pre- 
paring the  way.  Who  knows?" 

The  sun  penetrated  beneath  the  iron  roof  and 
illumined  Michel,  who  began  again  to  watch  the 
daylight  fade  away.  When  the  valet  came  about 
six  o'clock,  to  ask  for  orders,  he  could  not  help 
saying: 

" Monsieur  le  Comte  is  better;  he  looks  like 
himself  again." 

Sunday  ended  peacefully.  Some  shouts  still 
came  down  from  the  village  from  the  half-drunken 
men  trying  to  sing  as  they  left  the  inns.  There 
was  no  wind.  The  poachers  knew  that  there 
would  be  no  moon.  When  night  had  swept  into  her 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    183 

folds  the  remains  of  the  gold  which  trails  over  the 
fields  toward  evening,  there  was  an  hour  of 
freshness,  when  the  grass  began  to  drink  up 
the  dew.  The  noise  of  steps  was  deadened,  and 
the  sweetness  of  the  air,  penetrating  through  the 
open  doors,  brought  women  and  children  to  the 
threshold.  They  looked  out,  moved  by  the  un- 
known charm,  and  said:  "It  is  mild."  Abbe 
Roubiaux,  who  was  walking  in  his  path  of  box- 
wood, inhaling  the  perfume  which  came  from 
the  woods,  closed  his  breviary  under  his  thumb, 
lifted  his  eyes,  and  murmured:  "After  all,  halle- 
lujah!" Upon  the  heights  of  La  Vigie,  old  For- 
tier,  who  every  evening  watched  the  stars  and  the 
clouds  glide  above  the  woods,  noticed  that  the 
sky  was  saturated  with  water  as  if  all  the  stars 
were  weeping,  and  he  said:  "I  shall  have  sixty 
loads  of  hay  again  this  year." 

On  the  edge  of  the  pond  of  Vaux,  in  the  ravine 
which  sinks  down,  quite  sharply,  to  the  north- 
west, a  man  was  stretching  hoop-nets.  Shod  with 
sandals,  his  trousers  rolled  up  above  his  knees,  he 
took  one  of  the  long  willow  traps  hidden  in  a 
thicket  of  brush,  listened,  looked  over  at  the  op- 
posite bank,  then,  almost  certain  of  not  being 
watched — for  the  forest  was  dark  and  the  trees 
dipped  their  budding  branches  into  the  water — 
he  went  down  the  miry  bank,  staggering  on  the 
slimy  sods,  bent  over,  and  placed  the  snare  among 
the  reeds.  Supiat  Gueule  de  Renard  was  just 
taking  from  the  hiding-place  where  he  had  put 
them  to  dry,  his  sixth  eel  net,  when  he  heard  a 


184    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

noise  of  moving  branches,  to  his  left,  rather  near. 
With  a  supple  movement  he  knelt  at  once  upon 
the  ground,  lowering  the  net  cautiously,  and  laid 
down  beside  it.  The  croaking  of  frogs;  the  shrill 
chirping  of  crickets  at  the  entrance  of  their  caves ; 
the  diving  of  a  fish,  leaping  for  a  star,  filled  the 
silence  of  the  night.  Then  the  song  of  the  golden 
oriole,  very  softly  modulated  from  the  same  part 
of  the  woods  where  the  branches  had  moved, 
made  the  poacher  get  up.  He  called  cautiously: 

"Is  it  you,  Durge?    You  startled  me." 

Without  precaution  and  pushing  back  the 
underbrush  from  his  waist  and  shoulders,  the 
young  labourer  came  straight  to  Supiat  who  saw, 
in  the  shadow,  the  glistening  white  teeth  and  the 
eyes  of  Durge",  who  was  laughing. 

"When  I  did  not  find  you  at  the  house  I  guessed 
that  you  were  fishing  for  eels,  Gueule  de  Renard, 
and  I  came  here.  I  have  seen  the  Count." 

"Is  he  as  ill  as  they  say?" 

"Yes,  and  it  seemed  to  me  that  he  breathed 
badly." 

"I  should  not  weep  for  him!  He  is  a  bourgeois 
who  will  have  influence  here.  He  has  the  knack 
of  making  men  believe  that  he  is  interested  in 
them.  If  he  has  his  hay  cut  by  hand,  that  will 
make  ten  men  more  who  will  think  themselves 
under  obligations  to  him.  How  much  did  he 
offer  you?" 

"Three  francs.  The  two  old  men  have  accepted . 
But  I  refused;  they  were  furious!" 

"Good!" 

Supiat  began  to  laugh  and  lifted  his  face  in  the 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    185 

pale  light  of  the  night  like  a  beast  scenting  the 
wind. 

"Well,  Durge",  then  everything  is  settled?" 

"Parbleu!   That  is  what  I  came  to  tell  you. 

"I  will  warn  that  imbecile  Ravoux,  whom  I 
can  stir  up  by  talking  about  justice  arid  the  ex- 
ploitation by  the  proprietors;  he  will  forbid  Clo- 
quet  and  Dixneuf,  in  the  name  of  the  union,  to 
accept  three  francs;  he  will  go  himself  to  the 
master,  who  will  lose  his  temper  and  talk  of 
promises  and  agreements. 

"I  will  answer  for  that:  he  has  said  that  he 
would  not  give  in." 

"And  the  master  buys  his  machine,  and 
Meximieu  is  a  little  more  hated.  Come,  old  fel- 
low, that  is  all  right.  I  am  going  to  throw  my 
last  net." 

He  took  the  willow  trap  from  the  grass  all 
covered  with  dry  mud,  raised  it,  and  went  for- 
ward a  little  toward  the  left  to  the  place  where 
the  bank,  overhanging  by  a  foot  the  water  of  the 
pond,  allowed  him  easily  to  throw  the  net  be- 
tween the  reeds. 

He  came  back  rubbing  the  calves  of  his  legs 
stained  with  the  mud,  picked  up  his  sabots  which 
he  had  left  at  the  foot  of  a  tree,  and  tapping 
Durg6  on  the  shoulder,  said: 

"  There  is  also  a  comrade  who  must  be  thrown 
down,  Durge.  You  know  very  well  who.  I  have 
had  members  of  the  union,  even  the  young  ones, 
reproaching  me  for  the  beating  which  I  gave  him. 
He  could  easily  form  a  party,  that  old  man;  he  is 
cunning." 


186    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

"You  have  not  heard  'the  latest  news,'  as  the 
papers  say?" 

"What  is  that?" 

"His  daughter  is  completely  ruined.  She 
owes  money  to  more  than  twenty  people  of  the 
village  and  the  town.  Before  a  month  is  up  the 
bailiff  Will  be  in  the  house." 

"That  may  be,  but  that  won't  finish  the  old 
man.  His  daughter — that's  like  a  squirrel's  nest 
in  the  trunk  of  a  tree;  that  will  not  kill  him." 

Durge  tossed  his  head,  pricked  up  his  ears, 
and  listened  a  moment  before  beginning  to  walk 
on  again. 

"All  the  same,  there  will  be  debts  that  will 
trouble  him,"  he  said. 

The  two  men,  single  file,  plunged  into  the 
woods.  The  corner  of  the  pond  of  Vaux,  where 
the  ripples  which  the  casting  of  the  hoop-net  had 
made  were  already  widened  and  spread  out  upon 
the  banks  in  little  waves,  continued  to  reflect  the 
twinkling  of  the  stars.  Everything  slept  on  the 
farms.  Some  ducks,  turned  out  on  the  lake,  called 
to  the  flocks  of  wild  ducks  which  were  passing  in- 
visible. Gilbert  Cloquet  had  gone  to  bed ;  Michel 
de  Meximieu  was  reading  in  his  room  with  the 
window  half  open.  Their  two  names  continued 
to  be  pronounced  quite  low,  associated  together 
by  the  cunning  hatred  of  the  worst  blackguard 
of  Fonteneilles. 


vn. 


THE  HAY. 

GILBERT  was  to  lose  the  work  of  cutting  the  hay. 
The  mowing  machine  had  been  bought.  Tow- 
ard the  end  of  May  they  had  seen  it,  with  its 
wheels  and  seat  painted  bright  vermilion,  its 
sharp  saw  teeth,  its  shaft  bearing  the  trade  mark 
of  the  factory,  carried  upon  a  dray,  like  a  statue  in 
a  procession,  through  the  country  where  every- 
thing is  noticed  but  little  is  said. 

Then  the  day-labourer,  the  man  whom  the  ruin 
of  Marie  Lureux  kept  awake  every  night,  had 
asked  for  work  with  the  women  weeders  from 
Fonteneilles  who  went  into  the  half-grown  grain. 
They  went  through  it,  each  taking  one  of  the 
narrow  little  paths  which  the  furrows  make  be- 
tween the  planted  rows;  they  went  slowly,  care- 
ful not  to  bruise  the  ears  of  wheat,  bending  over, 
one  hand  behind  the  back  holding  a  handful  of 
weeds,  feeling  with  the  other,  here  and  there, 
among  the  young  grain,  wherever  a  thistle  or  a 
poppy  or  a  corn  flower  or  a  spear  of  vetch  from  an 
old  sowing,  or  a  sharp-pointed  bud  of  fennel 
pushed  up.  He  earned  little.  Most  of  the  women 
made  fun  of  him  and  they  were  jealous  of  this 
man  who  was  taking  the  bread  from  the  women. 
He  felt  this  passing  loss  of  prestige  so  he  did  not 

187 


188    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

stop  working  with  them  when,  at  the  end  of  the 
furrows,  they  straightened  themselves  up,  drew 
a  long  breath  and  gossiped  a  little,  trying  to  guess 
the  time  of  day;  but  he  hurried  back  into  the 
thicket  of  grain,  eager  to  escape  and  to  hide  his 
beard  between  the  green  walls  which  grew  higher 
each  day.  He  thought  most  of  all  of  his  daugh- 
ter and  of  the  shame  which  had  come  to  him.  But 
he  did  not  know  the  whole  of  his  misfortune. 
The  women  knew  it;  and  yet  not  one  of  them  had 
dared  to  say:  "Gilbert  Cloquet,  you  have  watched - 
poorly  over  your  children  at  the  farm  of  Epine. 
For  the  bailiff,  the  last  day  of  May,  went  through 
the  stables  with  his  paper;  and  he  went  into  the 
stalls,  but  a  part  of  the  animals  had  been  taken 
away  before  he  came,  and  he  made  no  note  of 
them.  You  have  not  met  them,  Cloquet,  but 
everybody  knew  that  they  were  in  the  woods; 
the  best  mare,  the  black  one,  three  cows,  and 
four  sheep,  watched  by  a  good-for-nothing  boy 
picked  up  on  the  road.  They  swore,  your  son-in- 
law  and  your  daughter,  yes,  swore  that  they  con- 
cealed nothing,  so  they  are  liars  and  when  the 
sale  comes  off  they  will  be  thieves." 
r  He  did  not  know  it.  He  had  not  gone  to 
Epine  since  his  daughter  had  driven  him  away. 
She  had  come  to  ask  his  pardon  and  to  ask  for 
money.  As  he  had  only  his  pardon  to  give,  she 
had  never  returned.  It  was  June.  The  summer 
time  before  the  harvest,  when  the  earth  is  all 
clothed.  Around  Fonteneilles,  and  on  the  brow 
of  the  hills,  and  upon  the  double  slope  of  the 
meadows  which  descend  to  the  lake  with  a  blue 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    189 

stream  in  the  middle,  barely  opened  like  a  for- 
gotten book,  the  grass  was  beginning  to  swell. 
It  was  ripe.  One  evening  Michel  de  Meximieu 
summoned  his  overseer  and,  pointing  out  the 
long  strip  of  meadow  land  which  rose  to  the 
South,  between  the  edge  of  the  wood,  and  the 
hedge  of  a  field  of  oats,  he  said : 

"We  will  cut  that  to-morrow.  Send  two  men 
to  make  the  path  and  to  cut  the  brambles,  before 
five  o'clock." 

The  last  day  dawned  for  the  grass.  The  morn- 
ing was  clear.  The  long  meadow  began  thirty 
yards  from  the  chateau,  rose  gently,  followed  the 
curve  of  the  forest,  descended  the  slope  on  the 
other  side  of  the  hill,  beyond  a  nettle  tree  which 
stood  out  against  the  open  sky.  No  ray  of  sun 
had  yet  touched  the  nettle  tree,  nor  the  oats 
which  watched  at  the  outskirts  of  the  wood.  But 
the  grass  felt  the  coming  of  the  day;  a  vigorous 
and  silent  life  stirred  it;  the  buttercups,  grouped 
in  large  spots,  unfolded  their  petals  which  the 
night  had  curled  up;  the  dandelions  spread  their 
bundles  of  yellow  swords;  the  daisies,  which  the 
darkness  does  not  close,  turned  their  full  face 
toward  the  coming  sun;  a  warm  breath  intensi- 
fied in  the  countless  seeds,  in  the  ears,  in  the 
clusters  and  the  tendrils,  in  the  umbels  and  the 
pods,  the  perfumed  oil  which  surrounds  the  germ. 
The  soft  wind,  passing  in  puffs  as  over  a  calm  sea, 
powdered  itself  with  pollen,  and  grew  heavy  with 
the  taste  of  the  honey.  The  long  sheet  undulated; 
not  a  stalk  was  bruised,  not  a  single  one  was 
dead,  but  the  colour  of  the  waves  proclaimed  that 


190    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

the  harvest  was  ripe.  The  fields  were  brown  and 
gray  and  shone  like  silver,  and  they  had  here  and 
there  blood-red  shadows  like  rust  on  things  which 
have  lasted  a  long  time.  When  the  two  servants 
entered  the  lower  end  of  the  field,  through  the 
white  gate,  a  partridge,  which  had  its  nest  in  the 
grass,  flew  away;  an  oriole  rose  from  a  border 
oak  and  let  itself  be  carried  away  by  the  wind, 
the  ardent  wing  of  the  sun;  a  corn-flake  slipped 
through  between  the  tufts  and  flew  up  into  the 
thicket  uttering  its  harsh  crex  crex  like  a  toad, 
and  there  followed  then  a  silence  of  terror  in  the 
world  of  the  animals  who  had  been  in  the  grain 
and  had  grown  up  with  it,  and  believed  in  it. 
The  very  crickets  were  silent  for  a  moment.  The 
scythe  traced  a  path,  and  the  pruning  knife  broke 
down  the  brambles  on  the  edge  of  the  large 
meadow. 

At  nine  o'clock  it  was  hot.  The  gate  again 
opened  and  two  black  horses  came  through,  har- 
nessed to  the  mowing  machine.  Where  were  the 
people  of  Fonteneilles,  those  who  had  cried  out 
against  the  machine  and  those  who  had  craftily 
broken  the  agreement  made  with  Gilbert  Clo- 
quet,  and  had  caused  the  purchase  of  the  starver, 
the  enemy,  which  rolled  in  resplendent  in  its  bright- 
red  paint,  upon  its  new  wheels,  behind  the  pa- 
tient horses?  There  was  no  one  to  be  seen  in  the 
oat  field,  the  leaves  of  the  forest  drooped  limp 
with  the  heat ;  since  daybreak  only  one  man  had 
passed,  a  shepherd  going  up  the  hill  toward  the 
pasture  where  Monsieur  Fortier  was  fattening  his 
white  cattle.  Who  was  going  to  drive  the  ma- 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    191 

chine?  Ah!  If  they  had  known!  The  whole 
hamlet  would  have  been  there !  It  was  Michel  de 
Meximieu  who  came  cut  of  the  chateau,  in  a  suit 
of  white  linen  with  a  straw  hat  on  his  head,  and 
took  his  place  upon  the  iron  seat,  above  the  cut- 
ting bar.  Renard,  whc-  was  holding  the  horses, 
said  for  the  last  time : 

"  Monsieur  le  Comte  can  see  that  there  are  no 
bad  fellows  about.  Tired  as  he  is,  he  should  not 
to  do  the  work  of  a  labourer.  If  Monsieur  le 
Comte  would  let  me,  I  would  be  able." 

"Thanks,  Renard.  I  do  believe  that  all  the 
tales  which  have  been  told  me  are  nothing  but 
pure  inventions;  but  it  is  enough  that  they  have 
threatened;  I  am  not  one  to  expose  others." 

He  took  the  reins  and  he  chirruped;  the 
scorching  rays  of  the  sun  flashed  from  the  reins  of 
the  horses  as  they  started.  The  teeth  of  the  saw 
took  hold  of  the  grass,  and  the  cut  grass  fell, 
slipped  upon  the  floor  of  the  machine,  then  fell 
again,  all  shining,  upon  the  ground,  moist  still 
along  the  stalk  and  pink  near  the  root.  Behind 
the  machine,  which  went  on  without  a  pause, 
with  a  regular  click,  click,  it  formed  a  wake,  a 
long  mirror  of  shining  grain  which  the  light  finally 
reached  and  dried.  Michel  enjoyed  the  perfection 
of  the  machine's  work  and  especially  the  feeling  of 
being  the  master  who  worked  and  was  closer  to  his 
harvest  than  any  man  of  his  race  had  been  before. 
He  drove  rapidly  and  rejoined  the  servants  who 
were  a  little  distance  from  the  top  of  the  hill. 

"Let  me  pass!"  he  cried.  "I  will  go  straight 
into  the  hay  without  a  path!" 


192    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

He  sacrificed  a  few  tufts  of  grass.  What  did 
that  matter  to  him?  This  year  would  end  it  all 
for  him.  The  horses  were  steaming  with  sweat. 
Suddenly  one  of  them  staggered,  fell  down  al- 
most, and  then  reared  up  with  an  effort;  the 
machine  lifted  to  one  side,  fell  back,  turned  as 
upon  a  pivot,  and  the  driver  was  pitched  to  the 
ground,  three  feet  away,  in  the  grass.  The 
mower  was  broken.  Michel  picked  himself  up 
and  ran  to  the  horses  and  stopped  them.  At  the 
same  instant  two  men  showed  themselves  stand- 
ing at  the  edge  of  the  forest,  while  on  the  other 
side,  in  the  field  of  oats,  which  was  separated  from 
the  meadow  only  by  a  hedge,  another  man  ap- 
peared and  cried:  "Bravo,  down  with  the  bour- 
geois!" Michel  turned  in  that  direction,  but  he 
saw  nothing.  He  walked  toward  the  place  where 
the  machine  had  struck  against  an  obstacle.  The 
two  servants  ran  and  searched  in  the  grass. 

"Here  it  is  Monsieur  Michel"  said  one  of 
them.  "Look!" 

He  held  up  in  his  hand  the  twisted  end  of  an 
iron  wire  which,  during  the  night,  some  one  must 
have  stretched  between  two  stakes,  hidden  in  the 
tall  grass. 

"That  is  Supiat's  work  again;  I'm  sure  of  it," 
he  cried. 

"Yes  it  was  he  who  was  hidden  in  the  oats! 
I  recognized  him!  I  will  run  after  him.  To  break 
the  machine !  Ah !  He'll  find  out ! "  said  the  other. 

"Take  back  the  horses,"  said  Michel,  stopping 
the  man  who  had  already  started  to  run.  "  Leave 
Supiat  and  the  others,  if  there  are  any.  In  two 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    193 

days  I  shall  have  a  new  reaper  and  I  will  drive  it 
myself  as  I  have  this  one.  I  order  you  to  tell  that 
through  the  country." 

"You  are  not  hurt,  Monsieur  Michel?" 

"No,  very  little." 

"But  you  are  so  pale.    You  look — " 

"Do  not  worry.    Go  on  back  to  the  farm." 

At  that  moment  a  voice  called  out : 

"Monsieur  de  Meximieu?" 

Before  turning,  Michel  knew  who  called  him. 
Antoinette  Jacquemin  was  standing  at  the  foot 
of  the  nettle  tree,  her  slim  figure  outlined  at  the 
top  of  the  great  bend  of  the  meadow,  and  she 
made  a  signal :  ' '  Come !  Come ! ' ' 

Michel  wrent  straight  toward  her  through  the 
tall  grass.  The  servants  went  down  toward  the 
chateau,  leading  the  horses  and  the  broken  ma- 
chine. She  had  chosen  her  hour  well,  the  little 
girl  of  Vaucreuse!  Must  he  really  obey  her?  He 
still  had  time  to  stop,  to  find  an  excuse  for  re- 
turning to  the  chateau.  "Why  not  avoid  her? 
What  am  I  doing?  What  can  she  do  for  me?  And 
what  can  I  say  to  her?  Am  I  going  to  complain 
about  the  ruin  of  my  father,  and  because  Fonte- 
neilles  does  not  belong  to  me  any  more?  She 
knows  nothing  of  it.  Am  I  going  to  let  her  see 
that  I  might  have  loved  her,  that  I  love  her 
already?  I  can  no  longer  do  so.  And  she  is  too 
young  for  me  to  tell  her  the  other  grief,  the  third, 
which  will  deliver  me  from  the  other  two.  Her 
eighteen  years  should  be  happy.  Take  care!  No 
tears!  No  weakness!  And  I  feel  weaker  than 
ever!  Why  am  I  going  to  her,  then?"  He  was 


194    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

going  because  she  was  sympathy,  and  because 
no  one  comforted  him.  He  was  going  with  his 
secret  which  he  would  not  tell,  but  which  perhaps 
she  would  divine. 

He  had  changed  greatly  since  the  visit  to  Vau- 
creuse.  His  face  had  grown  thin;  the  severe  ex- 
pression of  his  eyes  was  softened  by  suffering; 
they  had  had  visions  which  had  left  them  more 
anxious,  more  tender,  and  veiled  with  mist. 
Antoinette  Jacquemin  watched  him  as  he  came 
up.  At  first  she  had  asked  herself :  "Poor  neigh- 
bour, ought  I  to  joke  with  him  about  his  fall? 
He  does  not  limp.  His  hat  is  a  little  battered  and 
he  has  some  grass  stains  on  his  sleeve."  She  had 
been  thrown  from  her  horse  more  than  once. 
Her  gayety  was  more  ready  even  than  her  sym- 
pathy. But  it  was  sympathy  which  spoke  as  soon 
as  Michel  was  near  enough  for  a  look  to  make  itself 
felt,  at  the  distance  where  souls  begin  to  touch 
each  other  by  their  antennae  which  hesitate  and 
draw  back. 

"I  hope  you  are  not  hurt,  Monsieur?" 

"No,  Mademoiselle." 

"What  has  happened?  Why  did  the  mowing 
machine  upset?  Was  it  a  stone?" 

"A  trap  for  the  bourgeois,  Mademoiselle,  a  steel 
wire  stretched  last  night  to  trip  my  horses  and  to 
break  my  machine." 

"How  dreadful!  But  how  pale  you  are,  Mon- 
sieur! What  an  infamous  thing  to  do,  and  what 
a  cowardly  one!  I  came  to  Fonteneilles  this 
morning  with  the  cart  which  was  going  for  sup- 
plies. I  am  inquisitive.  I  wished  to  see  this 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    195 

mowing  machine,  about  which  the  country  has 
talked  more  than  it  deserved,  begin  its  career. 
And  also,  to  see  you  again.  You  remember  my 
promise.  Sit  down,  Monsieur,  there,  at  the  foot 
of  my  tree.  No?  I  assure  you  that  you  need  to 
rest  yourself." 

"No,  I  need  to  clasp  a  friendly  hand." 

"Then  take  mine." 

Michel  found  again  the  same  motherly  child, 
used  to  consoling  griefs  which  she  did  not  under- 
stand, that  he  had  seen  at  Vaucreuse.  She 
looked  at  him  with  an  anxious  tenderness,  her 
great  eyes  open,  her  face  all  golden  from  the 
shadow  of  her  hair  and  her  straw  hat  and  the 
morning  light  which  was  reflected  from  the  grass. 
She  said  nothing,  but  with  so  little  encouragement 
she  would  have  said:  "I  love  you,"  that  Michel 
was  afraid  of  this  silence  in  which  the  avowal 
grew  too  quickly.  He  broke  the  charm,  turning 
aside  a  step.  Their  hands  which  were  united  un- 
clasped. And  it  was  a  farewell  which  only  one  of 
the  two  understood. 

"Then,  I  was  right  to  come?  The  idea  was  not 
too  'childish/  as  you  say?" 

"No,  it  was  a  kind  thought,  true  and  timely, 
for  which  I  thank  you.  I  cannot  tell  you  how 
much  I  am  moved  to  see  you  on  this  land  of 
Fonteneilles." 

"I  came  to  the  boundary  of  the  chateau  once 
before,  eight  days  ago.  I  saw  you  in  the  dis- 
tance. But  I  was  with  Miss  Margaret  Brown,  my 
governess,  and  I  could  not  have  stopped  for  a 
friendly  talk.  What  is  the  good  of  a  common- 


196    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

place  good-morning,  the  pretence  of  surprise,  and 
the  regret  of  having  passed  by  without  being  a 
soul  which  thinks  and  listens?  What  good  would 
that  be?" 

He  received  the  words,  one  after  the  other,  as 
arrows  which  pierce  the  same  wound.  But  he  did 
not  appear  to  have  heard,  and  went  on  with  his 
thought : 

"Yes,  you  were  right  to  come  so  that  I  can 
show  you  myself  a  little  of  this  estate  of  which  I 
love  even  the  least  hillock!  Look  at  that  long 
meadow  leading  toward  the  house.  It  is  almost 
a  valley,  is  it  not?  How  nobly  the  slope  is  mod- 
elled!" 

"And  all  in  bloom.  To-morrow  it  will  be  less 
beautiful;  when  the  hay  falls,  something  sympa- 
thetic goes.  For  my  part,  I  close  my  eyes  when 
they  mow  the  hay  at  Vaucreuse.  With  us  it  is 
the  season  which  changes  the  landscape.  We 
have  not  that  great  line  of  lofty  forest  trees. " 

"You  will  have  it  some  day." 

"One  like  it?   That  is  impossible." 

"Who  knows?" 

"Oh,  I  know.  It  takes  centuries,  one  at  least. 
How  old  are  your  oaks?  That  one  there?  And 
the  other,  which  has  some  dead  branches  for  the 
ring-doves?  " 

"One  hundred  and  sixty  and  two  hundred 
years.  My  grandfather  planted  them." 

"We  have  been  at  Vaucreuse  a  much  shorter 
time.  Here  time  has  done  its  work.  Your  cha- 
teau is  half  surrounded  by  the  woods,  and  it 
seems  to  me — " 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    197 

She  pointed  with  a  gesture  to  the  old  tiles  of 
the  roof,  lower  than  the  tree  tops. 

"It  seems  to  me  that  in  the  autumn,  when  it  is 
all  covered  with  dead  leaves,  it  must  be  a  part  of 
the  forest!  It  is  like  one  more  old  oak." 

"I  beg  of  you  to  love  it." 

"But  I  do  love  it  like  all  the  country." 

"Be  the  one  who  does  not  leave  her  lands  for 
Paris?" 

"Must  I  swear  it?    I  am  quite  ready." 

"Do  not  laugh!  Do  not  take  my  words  in  jest. 
I  am  speaking  to  you  more  seriously  than  you 
think.  I  beg  of  you,  Mademoiselle  Antoinette,  as 
if  I  were  an  older  brother,  to  stay  in  this  country 
where  your  name  is  respected,  where,  personally, 
you  are  loved;  do  not  speak  evil  of  it  because  it  is 
more  suffering  than  many  other  parts  of  France, 
but  do  for  it  what  our  parents  have  not  known 
how  to  do:  live  in  it.  Merely  by  living  in  it  you 
will  be  a  real  grande  dame,  a  being  of  graciousness 
and  of  compassion." 

"I  assure  you,  Monsieur,  that  that  would  be 
my  ambition,  and  surely  the  ambition  of  any  other 
woman  in  my  place.  But  you  speak  so  strangely." 

"How?" 

"As  of  something  that  you  wish,  but  that  you 
will  not  see." 

"It  is  true.    I  shall  not  see  it." 

Mademoiselle  Jacquemin  bent  forward,  aston- 
ished. 

"You  will  no  longer  be  here?  Where  will  you 
be,  then?" 

Michel  felt  Antoinette's  eyes  fixed  upon  him 


198    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

and  saw  her  smile  vanish,  and  her  anxiety  increase 
as  the  silence  was  prolonged.  He  made  an  effort 
to  control  his  voice  which  refused  to  speak.  His 
face  remained  turned  toward  Fonteneilles  in  the 
distance. 

"Promise  me  to  keep  my  secret." 

"Yes." 

"I  am  betrothed." 

She  drew  back,  in  her  turn,  as  if  death  had 
passed  between  them.  And  she  drew  herself  up. 

Another  Antoinette  was  there,  no  longer  a  child, 
a  woman,  wounded,  irritated,  as  strong  as  he  in 
the  pain  of  love.  No,  she  would  not  weep!  He 
should  not  be  allowed  to  measure  the  pain  which 
he  had  just  inflicted.  Very  pale,  with  her  fine, 
haughty  head  thrown  back,  and  her  eyelids  half 
lowered  with  scorn,  she  found  words  to  reply, 
she  threw  them  from  the  end  of  her  blanched  lips. 

"I  congratulate  you.  But  I  do  not  see  why 
I  am  the  first  to  be  told.  In  truth,  it  is  too  much 
honour.  She  is  young?" 

Michel  shook  his  head. 

"She  is  rich,  assuredly.  A  Meximieu  can  only 
make  a  rich  marriage." 

"Yes.  She  has  all  the  millions  that  she  wishes. 
She  has  only  to  stoop  and  take  them." 

"How  strangely  you  say  that.  And  she  takes 
you  far  away,  since  you  are  leaving  Fonteneilles?" 

"Very  far." 

"It  will  be  soon?" 

Michel  closed  his  eyes. 

"I  do  not  know." 

"You  are  more  and  more  strange.     Excuse 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    199 

me!  I  must  rejoin  my  carriage,  which  waits  for 
me  at  the  hamlet.  And  of  what  I  have  said  to 
to  you,  remember  only  one  thing,  the  only  one 
which  may  be  true — " 

She  gave  a  little  nervous  laugh  which  died  in 
the  loneliness. 

"I  had  come  only  to  repeat  to  you  my  remark; 
you  must  remember  it,  that  you  knew  how  to 
make  yourself  loved.  I  was  right,  you  see!" 

The  tip  of  her  yellow  boot  struck  a  tuft  of  grass 
and  crushed  it.  Michel,  for  the  first  time,  had  the 
courage  to  look  at  the  new  Antoinette  Jacque- 
min.  He  saw  her  draw  back  again.  He  said  to 
her  slowly,  for  he  was  prolonging  at  the  same  time 
his  agony  and  his  last  vision  of  love: 

"Do  not  speak  in  that  way.  You  will  regret 
what  one  day  you  will  call  your  injustice.  But 
I  beg  you  in  advance,  do  not  accuse  yourself, 
when  you  shall  comprehend  and  when  you  shall 
know  all.  I  should  have  too  much  sorrow  know- 
ing you  were  sad.  You  have  done  me  no  wrong, 
not  a  single  one.  I  assure  you — do  not  answer, 
I  beg  you — as  I  have  done  none  to  you.  You 
have  been  the  first  delicious  apparition  in  my  life, 
and  all  that  you  have  said  to  me,  even  your  re- 
proaches, all  has  shown  me  the  chosen  being  near 
whom  I  would  have  passed — I  wish  that  you  may 
be  infinitely  happy, — adieu. — Thanks." 

" Adieu,  Monsieur." 

She  remained  standing  erect,  silent  and  haughty, 
until  he  had  regained  the  green  path  which  the 
machine  and  the  scythe  had  cut.  Then,  seeing 
that  he  was  far,  and  that  he  did  not  turn  round, 


200    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

she  approached  the  nettle  tree,  leaned  her  hand 
upon  the  trunk,  and,  her  head  on  her  hand,  she 
watched  disappear  along  the  hedge,  he  whom  she 
had  waited  for  with  joy.  When  he  was  close  to 
the  barrier  of  the  meadow,  she  hoped  that  he 
would  look  back,  at  least  once.  But  the  gate  was 
open.  He  passed  in.  Antoinette  noticed  that 
the  trees  of  Fonteneilles  trembled  before  her.  She 
was  weeping. 

Michel  was  stirred  to  the  depths  of  his  soul. 
Like  many  men  of  very  strong  spiritual  life  and 
much  alone,  he  was  accustomed,  when  he  had 
acted,  to  examine  his  act  and  to  judge  himself. 
In  the  smoking-room,  in  which  he  had  shut  him- 
self, he  paced  up  and  down,  his  eyes  fastened  upon 
the  floor,  where  his  shadow  preceded  him  from 
one  window  to  the  other.  "It  was  necessary  that 
I  should  be  abandoned.  I  think  that  is  accom- 
plished. I  have  been  able  to  tell  her,  without  her 
comprehending  why,  my  last  wish.  That  this 
land  should  not  suffer  because  all  the  Meximieus 
have  deserted  it.  Now  I  have  hope.  She  will 
understand.  The  words  which  she  said  to  me 
were  inspired  by  her  anger,  her  wounded  pride, 
her  poor  tenderness  which  she  thought  misunder- 
stood. But  all  that  will  pass.  How  strong  she 
was !  What  a  soul  of  a  woman  and  of  a  heroine  is 
already  in  her!  What  dignity  in  this  first  grief, 
which  I  have  brought  her.  I — I — Ah !  How  un- 
happy I  am!  How  I  long  to  weep!  But  I  must 
not!  I  have  promised!" 

To  keep  himself  from  breaking  down,  he  gave 
himself  witnesses.  He  rang  for  his  valet;  then, 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    201 

having  changed  his  dress,  he  went  to  the  stables 
and  inquired  about  the  horses.  The  farm  hands 
of  Fonteneilles  and  the  servants  said:  "He  is 
beginning  again  to  take  an  interest  in  the  land." 

As  soon  as  he  had  finished  lunch,  he  went  out, 
as  he  used  to  do,  and  entered  the  wide  avenue. 
A  strong  force,  either  of  his  will  or  of  his  grief, 
hurried  him  along  and  supported  him.  He 
walked  briskly.  Without  getting  out  of  breath, 
he  went  up,  under  the  burning  sun,  the  path  which 
leads  to  the  hamlet. 

It  was  the  hour  when  all  the  country  sleeps  save 
for  the  singing  of  the  gnats.  When  Michel  pushed 
open  the  lattice  gate  of  the  rectory  and  asked, 
standing  upon  the  threshold  of  the  kitchen:  "Is 
Monsieur  le  Cure*  at  home?  "  no  one  answered.  He 
repeated  the  question,  stepping  back  a  couple  of 
steps  to  the  middle  of  the  boxwood  path.  Then 
a  window  on  the  first  story  began  a  struggle 
with  a  hand  which  tried  to  open  it,  and  yielded, 
not  without  grumbling.  The  cure  leaned  out  in 
the  sunlight  above  the  walk. 

' '  Who  is  there?  Ah !  it  is  you,  Monsieur  Michel? 
Philomene  must  be  taking  her  mid-day  nap.  I 
will  come  down." 

"No,  Monsieur  le  Cure,  I  will  come  up.  I  can 
come  up  to-day." 

At  the  top  of  the  wooden  stairway,  he  found 
Abbe  Roubiaux,  who  ushered  him  into  a  room 
furnished  only  by  four  chairs,  a  table,  and  the 
photograph  of  his  old  mother.  Upon  the  table 
a  register  was  open,  and  a  note  book  lay  by  its 
side,  between  whose  pages  the  abbe,  before  open- 


202    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

ing  the  window,  had  slipped  a  sheet  of  blotting 
paper. 

"I  heard  what  happened  this  morning,"  said 
the  priest.  "It  must  have  been  very  painful  to 
you." 

"Yes.  Five  years  of  good  will,  rewarded  in 
that  way." 

"Oh,  do  not  think  your  good  will  lost,  Monsieur 
Michel.  I  am  sure  that  it  has  touched  some  one 
of  these  silent  ones  who  surround  you.  Come, 
I  am  sure,  that  you  have  already  forgiven  it  as 
— as  a  gentleman." 

"You  are  mistaken." 

"Really?   Are  you  still  angry  with  them? " 

"No,  you  mistake  the  term.  Monsieur  le 
Cur4,  let  me  tell  you  that  we  do  not  know  each 
other  well — and  that  I  regret  it.  You  have  been 
afraid,  I  am  sure,  that  people  would  say  here, 
that  the  cure  was  too  friendly  with  the  chateau. 
But,  when  the  chateau  means  a  man  of  your  own 
age,  or  almost  so,  one  who  is  not  of  the  world, 
and  whose  youth  is  not  gay,  I  assure  you,  why 
avoid  him?  Come,  if  we  had  talked  heart  to 
heart,  two  or  three  times  only,  just  now  you 
would  have  said  to  me  "forgive  it  as  a  Christian." 
That  is  the  right  word.  For  me,  Christ  is  the 
type  of  gentleman." 

The  abbe  rose  hastily,  his  worn  face  transfig- 
ured with  joy.  He  held  out  his  hand. 

"What  you  say  is  very  fine!" 

"No,  it  is  only  the  truth,  what  you  believe, 
and  what  I  believe.  My  dream,  like  yours,  has 
been  to  raise  them  gradually  to  that  height,  and 


to  go  leaving  a  work  greater  than  myself,  to  be 
the  workman  who  has  helped  to  build  the  spire 
of  a  cathedral.  But  that  needs  more  time  than 
I  shall  have.  One  can  barely  see  the  foundations 
in  the  mud." 

Abbe"  Roubiaux  had  drawn  his  chair  closer  to 
that  of  Michel.  Now  he  was  no  longer  afraid.  He 
dared  to  speak,  he  dared  to  be  himself.  He  let 
his  priest's  heart  speak,  that  heart  still  enthusi- 
astic and  na'ive,  the  spirit  of  a  seminarist,  aspiring 
to  the  conquest  of  the  world,  but  saddened  by  the 
memory  of  the  first  disappointments  of  his  work. 
He  clasped  his  hands  beneath  his  cassock.  He 
spoke  of  his  former  plans,  when  he  was  vicar  in 
Morvan,  and  how  he  had  found  them  unpracti- 
cable  since  he  came  to  Fonteneilles;  he  told  of  his 
misunderstood  appeals;  his  vain  waitings  at  the 
confessional,  in  the  parsonage  or  on  the  high- 
ways, when  he  had  so  ardently  wished  that  the 
people  would  come  to  him,  and  they  had  passed 
by;  he  humiliated  himself  for  not  having  yet 
succeeded;  he  let  it  be  seen  that  his  sympathy 
for  "his  flock"  had  remained  unchanged,  and 
that  his  disappointed  hope  always  revived  again, 
reached  its  own  level,  like  water  which  has  come 
from  far.  It  was  truly  the  son  of  Mere  Rou- 
biaux who  spoke;  a  child  of  the  people  ordained 
for  the  salvation  of  others,  puny  in  aspect,  but 
conscious  of  the  grandeur  of  his  mission  and  am- 
bitious as  an  emperor,  one  of  those  weak  ones 
whom  the  breath  from  on  high  transfigures,  and 
who  show  it  unexpectedly  by  their  closeness  to 
the  divine.  He  was  emboldened  even  to  call 


204    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

Michel  "my  friend."  Michel  listened,  sure  now 
that  he  had  found  a  strong  soul  among  the 
obscure  elite  of  the  world,  one  in  whom  he  could 
confide. 

"Would  you  believe,"  said  Abb6  Roubiaux, 
"that  I  have  a  great  sacrifice  to  make,  and  that 
I  have  hesitated?  Yet  nothing  flourishes  with- 
out sacrifice.  It  is  the  fertilizer  of  the  eternal 
fields.  Our  joys,  our  tastes,  our  repose,  are  beau- 
tiful stalks  cut,  chopped,  trodden  under  foot,  and 
which  fill  us  with  pity,  but  which  spring  forth 
again  in  wonders.  I  have  been  cowardly.  Would 
you  believe  that  my  bishop  has  asked  me — " 

"What?" 

"To  take  up  a  collection  from  house  to  house 
for  the  church!  In  Fonteneilles ! " 

"Poor  Monsieur!' Abbe!" 

"He  has  asked  me  twice.  And  I  have  refused. 
I  have  written:  'I  will  make  the  announcement 
at  high  mass;  I  will  receive  the  offerings  that  any 
of  my  parishioners  shall  be  willing  to  bring  to 
make  good  the  allowances  of  the  concordat  which 
have  been  suppressed.  But  it  is  useless  to  solicit 
from  house  to  house.  They  would  welcome  me 
nearly  everywhere,  that  I  am  sure  of,  but  they 
would  give  scarcely  anywhere." 

"What  did  the  bishop  reply?" 

"He  replied:  'Make  the  collection,  were  it  only 
to  know  your  parish/  I  set  out,  I  went  in  person 
to  see  my  bishop ;  I  entreated  him ;  I  said  to  him : 
'  But  I  know  this  parish !  What  is  the  use  of  ask- 
ing from  these  men  and  women  who  do  not  even 
come  to  mass,  who  work  on  Sunday,  who  swear 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    205 

like  devils  and  amuse  themselves  in  the  same  way. 
To  preach  to  them?  I  am  glad  to  do  that.  To 
serve  them?  Oh!  With  all'my  unemployed  heart! 
To  be  their  misunderstood  friend,  scoffed  at, 
struck  perhaps;  again,  yes.  But  to  provoke  a 
reply  of  indifference  or  of  hatred,  and  to  count 
each  time:  "Another  one  who  denies  his  God! 
Another  and  another!"  That  is  an  agony  beyond 
my  strength,  Monseigneur.' ' 

"Was  he  weak  enough  to  listen  to  you?" 

"No,  he  repeated  to  me:  'I  give  you  the  com- 
mand, for  the  third  time,  to  go  everywhere.  The 
time  has  come  when  payment  must  be  demanded 
from  France  for  her  baptism.  Go,  my  friend,  and 
be  not  afraid.' '' 

"And  then?" 

"You  see,  I  have  decided;  I  am  preparing  my 
list." 

There  was  silence. 

"Monsieur  PAbbe,"  said  Michel,  "I  have  a 
story  to  tell  you — very  like  your  own.  I  also,  I 
shrank  from  the  sacrifice  that  is  demanded  from 
me!" 

"Is  it  as  hard  as  mine?    Ah,  then,  I  pity  you!" 

"Harder,  perhaps.  But  I  believe  that  now, 
since  this  morning  especially,  it  is  accepted.  I  am 
going  to  tell  you  about  it  to  be  still  more  certain 
that  I  have  made  it.  Monsieur  1'Abbe,  I  am 
very  ill." 

"My  friend,  you  are  perhaps  not  well,  you 
must- 

"It  is  hopeless,  that  is  the  truth;  my  physician 
has  let  me  understand  it.  I  have  read  it  in  medi- 


206    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

cal  books,  and  besides,  I  feel  it  only  too  well. 
Do  not  try  to  deny  it;  it  is  no  use.  You  know 
better  what  I  am  since  this  last  half  hour.  I  would 
have  liked  to  help  you  to  restore  this  parish;  I 
would  have  liked  to  redeem  all  the  faults  that  the 
Meximieus  have  committed  against  it;  all  their 
negligences,  their  absences.  I  could  have  been 
just  and  fraternal  without  effort,  I  think.  That 
would  have  been  the  best  way,  without  doubt. 
I  shall  not  have  the  time.  Monsieur  1'Abbe,  tell 
me,  in  all  truth,  if  you  believe  that  my  acceptance 
of  the  death,  which  is  coming,  may  be  powerful 
before  God?" 

" Infinitely  so,"  said  the  abbe,  "as  powerful  as 
the  most  difficult  obedience  and  the  most  sub- 
lime prayer." 

"Then,  since  I  have  not  been  able  to  give  my 
example  and  my  heart,  I  give  my  life  that  Fonte- 
neilles  may  live  again.  I  accept  my  death.  It  is  all 
which  remains  to  me,  Monsieur  1'Abbe.  Adieu." 

He  tried  to  smile,  and  he  succeeded.  His  lips, 
which  had  just  named  death,  remained  bravely 
parted;  his  eyes  looked  on  it  and  did  not  waver. 
He  had  the  air  of  a  page  before  the  enemy,  ironical, 
amiable,  careless,  the  air  which  each  Meximieu 
had  had  in  his  first  battle,  when  he  sprang  on  his 
horse,  the  trumpets  sounding,  and  drew  his  sword 
in  the  service  of  the  king.  Poor  youth.  He  had 
their  age;  he  had  their  manner  and  he  also 
smiled  in  the  face  of  danger,  but  he  had  no  wit- 
ness but  a"  village  priest ;  he  did  not  expect  glory, 
and  the  king  for  whom  he  accepted  death  would 
never  know  of  it. 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    207 

It  was  a  fine  expression  of  youth,  which  lasted 
only  the  time  of  a  salute.  Then  his  lips  relaxed. 
No  more  words  were  said.  The  two  men  had 
risen. 

Their  looks  still  spoke  to  each  other  as  those 
who  find  words  too  feeble  to  express  the  inmost 
feelings  of  their  souls.  There  was  no  emotion,  no 
vain  consolation.  The  abbe  accompanied  Michel 
as  far  as  the  garden  gate.  The  one  as  pale  as  the 
other,  but  the  least  troubled  of  the  two  appeared 
to  be  Michel  de  Meximieu. 

"I  shall  come  to  see  you,"  said  Abbe  Roubiaux. 
"Ah!  Monsieur  Michel,  if  there  was  only  a  man 
in  each  chateau,  a  man  in  each  parish!" 

Michel  was  already  at  the  corner  of  the  house, 
on  the  square.  He  went  down  the  road.  A 
woman  here  and  there  raised  the  window  curtain 
with  the  finger  holding  the  needle  and  said: 

"He  has  just  been  to  call  on  the  cure".  The 
rich,  they  have  always  time  to  spare." 

The  heat  passed  over  the  country  in  stifling 
puffs  which  smelt  of  hay.  The  dust  upon  the 
road  rose  in  whirlwinds.  A  storm  cloud,  all  white 
with  reflections  like  copper,  came  on,  piling  up  its 
successive  peaks  above  the  woods.  Michel  reached 
his  chateau  overwhelmed  by  fatigue.  But,  for  the 
first  time  in  years,  he  had  peace  within. 


VIII. 


ABBE  ROUBIAUX'S  COLLECTION. 

THE  people  of  Fonteneilles  talked  together  of  the 
sale  to  be  held  at  Epine  on  Sunday,  July  the 
twenty-second.  A  notice,  posted  on  the  walls  of  the 
Mayor's  office,  announced  this ' '  voluntary  "  sale  and 
enumerated  the  objects  to  be  sold  at  the  auction. 

Since  it  had  been  there,  Gilbert  kept  away. 
He  did  not  show  himself  any  more  in  the  hamlet 
on  account  of  this  sheet  of  red  paper;  he  was 
working  at  the  harvest  on  a  distant  farm,  and  re- 
turned only  on  Saturday  to  his  house  at  Pas-du- 
Loup,  avoiding  meeting  his  former  friends  and 
taking  by-paths  in  place  of  the  roads,  ashamed 
and  irritated  at  having  his  children  bankrupts. 

Abbe  Roubiaux,  called  away  by  his  sick  mother, 
had  left  his  parish  before  beginning  the  collection 
which  he  had  promised  to  make,  and,  on  his  return 
to  Fonteneilles,  he  put  off  from  day  to  day  his  un- 
pleasant task. 

When  the  sun  rose,  on  the  nineteenth  of  July, 
the  atmosphere  was  hot  and  still  filled  with  the 
dust  of  yesterday.  During  six  weeks  the  earth 
had  suffered  from  drought.  The  leaves  hung  limp 
along  the  branches;  the  grass  had  lost  its  bril- 
liancy, grain  fell  from  the  ears,  and  men  suffocated 
as  they  bent  over  the  wheat. 

208 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    209 

The  labour  of  the  harvest  was,  therefore, 
harder  than  usual  for  the  reapers  cutting  the  oats 
and  wheat,  and  promised  but  small  profit. 

This  was  what  Abbe  Roubiaux  was  thinking 
as  he  went  at  noonday  from  Fonteneilles  down  to 
Pas-du-Loup.  He  was  walking  slowly  upon  the 
road,  which  rang  like  a  hollow  rock,  his  head 
bowed  down,  contrary  to  his  custom.  He  lifted  it 
up  in  passing  before  the  avenue  of  the  chateau, 
and  saw  Michel  de  Meximieu  leaning  on  the 
white  gate.  The  young  man  beckoned :  "Come  in 
and  see  me."  He  looked  very  calm.  Nothing 
showed  that  he  had  just  gone  through  a  crisis, 
unless  it  were  the  pallor  of  his  nostrils  which 
were  still  dilated  and  the  trembling  of  his  fingers 
upon  the  wood  he  was  grasping.  All  the  energy 
of  his  race  had  revived  in  him,  transformed, 
silent,  and  master  in  the  domain  of  suffering. 

To  Abbe  Roubiaux  who  asked:  "How  do  you 
do?"  he  replied: 

"Poorly." 

But  it  was  said  with  a  tone  of  supreme  indiffer- 
ence. And  he  added : 

"I  am  waiting  for  the  coming  of  the  cattle 
driver,  to  speak  to  him  about  sending  off  some 
cattle.  Farmer  to  the  last,  as  you  see.  And  you? 
I  know  what  you  are  going  to  do." 

"Alas!" 

"Where  do  you  begin?" 

"With  the  hamlet  of  Pas-du-Loup!  Five 
houses  and  not  one  Christian!  I  am  hurrying,  be- 
cause it  is  the  rest  hour  and  the  workmen  are  at 
home,  or  may  be  there." 


210    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

Michel  bowed  to  him  with  a  smile. 

' '  Good  luck  to  the  missionary !  Monsieur  P Abbe, 
come  and  tell  me,  this  evening,  the  result  of  your 
first  day's  begging.  For  my  part  I  feel  confident." 

"Truly?" 

"You  see,  Monsieur  1'Abbe",  we  have  in  our 
bodies  eight  quarts  of  blood.  Well,  in  the  poor- 
est blood  of  France,  there  is  always  one  drop 
which  believes." 

They  pressed  each  other's  hand,  and  Abbe* 
Roubiaux  went  hurrying  down  to  take  the  little 
path  near  by,  which  led  between  the  meadows. 

The  first  house  which  he  entered  was  that  of 
Gilbert  Cloquet.  The  workman,  while  mowing 
the  day  before,  had  been  overcome  by  the  heat. 
He  had  returned  to  the  hamlet  and  was  still  lying 
weak  upon  his  unmade  bed.  At  the  noise  of  the 
opening  door,  at  the  sudden  entrance  of  the  light 
and  air,  he  sat  up  ashamed,  and  jumped  out  of 
bed  upon  the  earth  floor,  buttoning  in  haste  the 
collar  of  his  shirt  and  slipping  his  feet  into  the 
sabots  standing  beside  the  bed. 

"Why,  it  is  the  cure!"  said  he.  "Excuse  me!  I 
did  not  expect  your  visit.  I  was  net  thinking  of 
you." 

"I  am  very  sorry  to  disturb  you,  Gilbert.  But 
I  have  a  reason  for  coming." 

"That  must  be,  Monsieur  le  Cure".  I  never  saw 
your  predecessor  in  my  house  until  the  day  when 
he  came  to  take  away  the  body  of  my  poor  wife, 
to  bury  her.  Will  you  sit  down?" 

"Thanks." 

"Will  you  have  a  glass  of  wine?  You  are  thirsty, 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    211 

perhaps?  I  shall  be  glad  to  give  it;  but  for  me, 
I  am  unable  to  drink  to-day." 

"No.  I  have  come  about  a  very  serious  mat- 
ter. I  am  going  to  see  every  one  in  the  parish, 
and  I  have  begun  with  Pas-du-Loup.  Gilbert 
Cloquet,  you  know  that  the  State  does  not  pay 
us  any  more?" 

"Yes,  I  know  it,  I  have  read  that  in  the 
papers." 

"Well,  I  have  come  to  ask  you,  you  and  all  the 
men  of  the  parish:  Will  you  give  something  to 
support  the  priests,  myself  and  the  others,  or  do 
you  wish  to  give  up  religion?  You  are  free,  Gil- 
bert. Answer  me  according  to  your  conscience." 

The  abbe",  standing,  agitated  and  trembling  in 
spite  of  himself,  had  recited  the  speech  which  he 
had  prepared  and  which  he  was  going  to  repeat 
the  same  way  to  the  head  of  each  family.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  he  had  the  whole  country  be- 
fore him,  considering  and  firm.  What  was  it  go- 
ing to  answer?  He  prayed.  The  village,  prostrated 
by  the  heat,  was  silent.  A  tree-toad  sang,  hidden 
under  the  cask  of  wine.  Gilbert,  in  shirt  and  pan- 
taloons, his  head  bowed,  considered  the  words 
which  had  just  been  spoken  to  him,  as  if  it  were 
a  question  of  a  bundle  of  bark  whose  weight  he 
wished  to  judge  of.  He  had  the  manner  he  bore 
on  the  great  days  of  debate,  the  face  of  a  judge, 
his  jaw  drooping,  his  eyelids  half  closed  and  his 
eyebrows  knit  together.  What  memories  passed 
through  his  mind?  What  reasons  influenced  him? 
All  remained  mysterious.  He  told  only  one  thing, 
the  least  important,  doubtless,  of  those  that  he 


212    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

had  weighed  in  his  mind;  he  held  up  his  head,  his 
blue  eyes  were  serene. 

"  Monsieur  le  Cure,  I  make  little  use  of  re- 
ligion; but  it  does  not  suit  me  to  have  none  at 
all.  I  want  to  be  buried  in  holy  ground,  like  my 
dead." 

The  abbe,  who  meant  to  say  thank  you,  was  so 
troubled  that  he  did  not  realize  that  he  only  con- 
tinued aloud  the  prayer  begun  in  his  mind: 
"Sancta  Maria,  mater  Dei — "  Neither  did  the 
workman  notice  it.  He  had  turned  away  and  was 
fumbling  under  his  bolster  and  he  drew  from  be- 
neath it  an  old  purse  with  copper  mountings; 
then,  placing  his  offering  in  the  hand  of  Abbe" 
Roubiaux,  he  said: 

"I  am  no  longer  rich,  I  cannot  give  much.  You 
must  not  hold  it  against  me.  My  poor  Marie  is 
going  to  be  sold  out  on  Sunday." 

The  abbe,  very  pale,  took  in  his  fingers  the  two- 
franc  piece,  and,  lifting  it  up  he  traced  in  the  air 
the  sign  of  the  cross : 

" Benedicat  vos!"  said  he.  "Thanks,  Gilbert. 
God  will  not  abandon  you." 

"I  have  need  of  Him,"  answered  the  man. 

Perhaps  he  would  have  said  more.  But  the 
abbe"  withdrew,  and,  crossing  the  forest  road,  en- 
tered the  house  of  Ravoux,  where,  in  the  lower 
room  five  children  with  the  father  and  mother 
had  just  eaten  dinner.  The  salad  bowl,  full  of 
the  remains  of  curdled  milk  and  bread,  still  stood 
between  them  on  the  table.  Ravoux  rose  up, 
frowned,  and,  like  Gilbert,  looked  straight  at  the 
priest.  But  between  them  rose  up  all  the  reading 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    213 

which  the  workman  had  done.  The  abbe*  timidly 
began  to  repeat  his  request. 

"No,  Monsieur,"  interrupted  Ravoux;  "it  is  use- 
less. You  know  very  well  that  I  do  not  belong 
to  your  party." 

"But  I  am  not  of  any  party,  no  more  than 
God,"  said  the  abbe". 

"Enough.  I  mean  what  I  say.  I  do  not  give 
for  the  mitre." 

Abbe  Roubiaux  raised  his  hand  above  the 
astonished  children  for  the  second  time. 

"  Benedicat  vos!" 

He  went  out,  bowing.  Ravoux  followed  him. 
He  was  moved,  even  touched.  His  black  and 
curly  beard  twitched. 

"When  you  have  no  more  bread  at  home,"  said 
the  workman  to  the  retreating  priest,  "I  will  not 
refuse  it  to  you.  What  I  refuse  is  the  cause,  it  is 
not  you." 

The  abbe"  made  a  motion  with  his  head,  with- 
out turning,  while  Ravoux  drove  back  into  the 
room  the  children  and  their  mother,  whose  heads, 
one  above  the  other,  filled  the  doorway. 

"A  queer  fellow,  our  cure!"  said  he,  laughing. 
"He  believes  in  his  religion!" 

The  abbe*  continued  his  collection.  He  went 
into  the  house  of  the  neighbour  of  Cloquet  and 
the  fat  Mere  Justamond  asked  him: 

"Can  I  give  you  something  without  telling  my 
husband?  He  is  not  home." 

"No,  on  the  contrary,  you  must  ask  him,  that 
he  may  have  his  share  of  the  credit." 

"Then  I  can't  do  it." 


214    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

"  Adieu,  Mere  Justamond!" 

Abbe  Roubiaux  turned  on  his  heels,  but  he  had 
not  taken  four  steps  toward  the  house  of  Pere 
Dixneuf,  before  the  good  woman  ran  breathlessly 
after  him: 

"Here,  Monsieur  le  Cure,  take  this  just  the 
same."  And  she  gave  him  ten  sous.  She  had  six 
children. 

Pere  Dixneuf,  the  old  Zouave,  attacked  with 
hemiplegy,  with  his  right  hand  contracted,  his 
neck  twisted  and  his  eyes  dull  and  moist,  was 
seated  in  a  straw  arm-chair  before  his  window. 

"It  would  be  more  to  the  point  for  me  to  beg 
from  you!  After  all,  I  never  go  to  the  church!" 

Then,  lifting  himself  up  on  the  pillow  which 
supported  his  head: 

"Take,  however,  all  the  same,  the  sous  which 
are  on  the  chimney  piece,  it  is  all  that  I  have. 
And  then  leave  me  alone.  Good-by!" 

The  abbe"  took  two  of  them,  and  left  the  rest. 

The  wife  of  Juste  Lappe,  quite  on  the  edge  of 
the  woods,  a  little  woman,  very  faithful,  deter- 
mined, active,  and  almost  pretty  still,  who  went 
out  for  a  day's  work  as  often  as  her  husband, 
having  seen  the  whole  hamlet  in  a  flutter  of  ex- 
citement, already  knew  the  reason  for  the  cure's 
visit.  She  did  not  wait  for  his  request,  but  taking 
the  abbe  aside,  to  the  shelter  of  the  corner  of  the 
house,  she  said: 

"Tell  me,  Monsieur  le  Cure*,  did  Ravoux  give 
you  anything?" 

"No." 

"Or  Gilbert?" 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    215 

"I  began  with  him,  and  he  gave  something." 

"Very  well,  then  I  will  give,  too;  Lappe  is 
always  on  Cloquet's  side  in  arguments." 

As  he  left  the  forest,  the  abbe  talked  aloud  to 
himself:  "It  is  not  so  bad;  I  would  hardly  have 
believed;  can  Pas-du-Loup  be  the  best  hamlet  of 
the  parish?  How  can  that  be?  Anyway,  I  have 
made  a  beginning.  Now,  to  the  open  fields, 
Roubiaux!" 

He  hurried  out  of  the  road,  across  a  meadow, 
to  the  farm  of  Epine,  where  Cloquet's  daughter 
disdainfully  refused  to  give,  and  crossing  the 
road  of  Fonteneilles,  he  entered  the  wheat  field  of 
one  of  the  large  farms  of  the  parish.  On  account 
of  the  slopes  in  the  shape  of  shelving  ridges,  which 
formed  the  field,  it  was  difficult  to  reap  with  the 
machine.  They  were  harvesting  with  the  scythe. 
The  ears  pressed  one  against  the  other,  forming  at 
three  feet  above  the  ground  a  covering,  thicker, 
more  sensitive  and  changeable  than  the  fur  of  an 
animal,  a  cover  of  moving  grain,  from  which 
there  already  came  the  odor  of  bread;  by  the 
blades,  all  along  the  stalks,  the  heat  had  collected, 
scorching  the  straw  and  drying  the  flour.  And 
the  men  had  now  entered  in  this  furnace  to  reap. 
The  abbe  sought  his  flock.  Three  of  them  were 
there,  bent  over;  the  napes  of  their  necks  burn- 
ing; their  arms,  with  the  scythes  which  they  held, 
describing  a  semicircle ;  their  bodies  following  the 
movement  with  less  freedom,  their  feet  stepping 
forward  after  every  two  strokes  of  the  scythe 
and  swayings  of  the  body.  One  saw  these  har- 
vesters from  the  rear.  The  one  who  began  first 


216    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

was  already  half-way  up  the  hill;  in  the  second 
rank,  fifty  yards  behind,  his  brother  followed 
him,  and  nearly  at  the  bottom  of  the  field,  quite 
near  to  the  abbe,  the  servant,  a  bad  youngster  of 
sixteen  years,  was  nicking  the  blade  of  his  scythe 
on  the  stones.  On  seeing  the  abbe  get  over  the 
tree  branches  the  boy  laughed,  shrugged  his 
shoulders  and  began  again  to  mow.  He  had  often 
heard  about  cures,  and  never  anything  good. 
His  cheeks  were  red,  but  what  a  wretched  phy- 
sique, and  what  morbid  inheritance  showed  in 
the  pallid  tint  of  his  neck,  in  the  already  flaccid 
and  dented  gums  of  his  half-open  mouth,  in  that 
glimmer  of  bestial  passion  in  his  eyes.  What 
death,  poorly  disguised  as  youth,  showed  itself 
under  this  mask ! 

"My  boy,"  said  the  abbe,  "I  meet  you  for  the 
first  time.  Where  are  you  from?" 

"From  Allier." 

"Have  you  made  your  first  communion?" 

"Not  much." 

The  contraction  of  death  was  around  his  poor 
mouth,  blue  with  fatigue  and  helpless  exhaustion. 
The  boy  had  placed  his  scythe  upright  in  the 
stubble.  He  seemed  dwarfed  by  its  side. 

"Have  you  ever  been  baptized?" 

"I  believe  so,  because  I  was  there  at  the  bap- 
tism of  my  sisters." 

The  abbe  repeated  his  speech,  to  explain  his 
visit.  And  the  laugh  died  away. 

"If  I  ask  money  from  you,  it  is  not  for  the 
money,  my  boy,  it  is  most  of  all  for  your  little 
unknown  soul.  I  was  born  like  you  on  a  farm. 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    217 

I  have  worked,  too,  as  you  are  doing.  But  I  have 
left  what  I  loved,  my  mother,  my  relatives,  and 
my  neighbours,  in  order  to  love  you  all  better. 
Tell  me,  even  if  you  know  nothing  about  the 
good  God,  you  do  not  want  to  be  one  of  his  ene- 
mies?" 

The  sun,  which  had  long  before  drunk  up  the 
reserves  of  water  from  the  earth,  was  drinking 
now  the  sap  of  the  grass  and  of  the  woods,  and  it 
was  that  which  made  the  white  clouds  large  as  a 
hand,  which  floated  very  high,  like  birds  which 
have  their  nest  in  the  grass  and  which  hover 
over  it.  The  cassock  of  the  abbe  was  wet  with 
perspiration  and  clung  to  his  body.  The  men  who 
were  in  advance,  in  the  first  open  cuttings,  turned 
their  heads  while  still  mowing  to  see  what  the 
servant  was  doing.  The  child  raised  his  eyes  to 
those  of  the  abbe",  and  some  tenderness  fell  on  his 
waste  soul.  He  passed  his  elbow  over  his  damp 
forehead,  tapped  upon  the  pocket  of  his  panta- 
loons, and  said  making  sport  of  himself,  but 
with  true  youth  hi  his  glance  and  feeling  in  his 
voice : 

"I  have  nothing  there,  but  I  would  like  to  do  it 
to  give  you  pleasure.  If  you  like,  I  will  come  on 
Sunday  to  bring  you  my  sous." 

Over  the  swaths  of  cut  wheat,  through  the  paths 
between  them,  the  abbe  made  his  way  up  toward 
the  second  man,  and  behind  him,  he  heard  the 
grating  noise  of  the  scythe  of  the  boy  who  had 
begun  work  again.  When  he  had  approached 
near  to  the  reaper  of  wheat,  the  abbe  saluted 
with  his  hand,  and  was  going  to  speak,  when  the 


218    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

man  said  gravely,  having  guessed  or  heard  the 
dialogue  from  below: 

"Yes,  put  down  my  name.  I  am  a  Catholic, 
as  you  know  well ;  I  have  a  mass  said  every  year, 
on  the  day  on  which  my  father  died." 

"And  your  brother?" 

"I  do  not  know.    Go  and  ask  him." 

The  abbe  went  up  a  little  farther  toward  the 
left,  to  the  edge  of  the  hedge.  He  looked  at  the 
churlish  man,  who  was  the  elder  and  the  real  head 
of  the  farm,  a  colossus,  who  cut  with  one  stroke  of 
the  blade  a  swath  as  wide  as  a  great  cart  wheel. 
He  spoke  to  him  when  still  a  little  behind  him  and 
the  man  without  rising,  without  turning  around, 
said  dryly: 

"No!" 

"You  are  not  willing?" 

"No!" 

The  abbe*  waited  behind,  his  hat  in  his  hand, 
slowly  following  the  man  who  was  swinging  the 
scythe. 

"In  the  name  of  those  who  have  mowed  here 
before  you,"  said  he,  "and  who  are  dead!" 

The  two  men  were  walking  upon  the  same 
stubble,  they  heard  each  other's  tread. 

"In  the  name  of  your  children  who,  without 
God,  will  not  have  the  full  joy  of  their  life!" 

Both  were  brushing  with  their  breasts  the 
same  ears  of  grain  about  to  fall. 

"In  the  name  of  your  uncared-for  soul,  which  I 
want  to  save!" 

The  peasant  made  no  answer.  There  was  anger 
in  the  noise  of  his  scythe  cutting  the  ears  of  grain. 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    219 

Besides,  they  were  close  by  the  ridge  of  the  field, 
the  top  of  the  red  wave,  and  the  man  was  going  to 
go  down  the  other  slope  of  the  wheat  field.  When 
the  abbe"  saw  that,  he  left  the  reaper,  and  he 
turned  his  steps  toward  other  fields  and  other 
hearts. 

At  eight  o'clock  in  the  evening  he  had  not  ap- 
peared at  the  chateau  of  Fonteneilles.  Neither 
did  he  come  on  Friday.  It  was  not  until  Saturday 
evening  he  came  down  through  the  avenue  of 
beech  trees,  an  Abbe  Roubiaux  who  did  not  at  all 
resemble  the  former  one.  He  seemed  to  have 
grown  thin,  his  cassock  was  white  with  dust;  he 
limped  as  he  walked  and  he  leaned  heavily  upon 
his  staff;  but  the  little  dark  countenance,  un- 
mindful of  the  road,  beaming  with  joy  and  dream- 
ing, was  surely  listening  to  the  canticle  of  the  new 
life.  The  priest  came  through  the  summer  twi- 
light, which  is  as  clear  as  the  day,  and  softer. 

"Well!  And  the  collection?"  cried  Michel, 
crossing  the  court.  "Is  it  finished?" 

They  met  each  other  under  the  last  beech  of  the 
great  avenue. 

"I  am  worn  out,"  said  the  abbe",  "but  I  have 
hope !  You  were  right !  Do  you  know  how  many 
families  have  refused  me,  Monsieur  Michel?  Six! 
All  the  others  have  given!" 

"It  is  a  marvel,  indeed!" 

"And  yet  another  is  that  I  have  made  myself 
known  to  them.  I  am  more  truly  their  priest. 
We  are  less  afraid  of  each  other,  they  and  I.  Ah! 
Monsieur  Michel,  if  you  could  have  heard  what 
different  forms  of  faith!  What  simplicity!  Often 


220    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

what  poorness  of  spirit !  But  what  mysteries  of 
the  heart  showed  in  it  all!" 

He  brought  the  proofs.  They  were  the  replies 
gathered  in  the  fields  and  in  the  farms.  He  lived 
in  them  still.  He  was  agitated,  troubled,  sad- 
dened, amused  by  them.  He  told  them  with  all 
the  gestures  and  the  accents.  He  told  those  of 
the  inhabitants  of  Pas-du-Loup,  and  those  of  the 
reapers,  with  their  fears,  and  their  putting  off  for 
a  week  hence,  and  the  secret  meetings,  and  their 
words  so  full  of  ignorance:  ''Monsieur  le  Cure", 
I  am  for  religion,  because  it  helps  trade!  What 
would  become  of  the  market  towns  if  there  were 
no  Sunday?  For  myself,  I  am  not  afraid;  I  am  a 
Catholic  and  when  I  can  go  to  mass,  I  go.  Write 
down  the  name  of  my  father,  if  it  is  possible,  he 
would  have  been  glad  to  have  his  name  there. 
I  will  give  for  him." 

"And  those  who  have  refused  me,"  continued 
the  abbe,  "have  nearly  all  of  them  wished  to  ex- 
plain the  reason;  they  have  made  excuses  for 
themselves;  one  of  them  had  a  brother  who  was 
a  lock-keeper,  and  if  he  should  give  for  the 
church,  he  would  be  afraid  of  what  would  happen 
to  his  brother;  another  said  to  me:  'I  am  an 
official.'  And  his  duties  consisted  in  taking  care 
of  a  child  for  the  State  Charity.  I  have  scarcely 
met  anything  of  what  I  dreaded  so  much.  Ah! 
Monsieur  Michel,  there  are  their  replies.  They 
are  poor  like  themselves !  They  do  not  know,  they 
fear,  they  tremble ;  but  all  these  indifferent  ones, 
having  been  put  in  a  position  where  they  could 
deny  their  faith,  have  refused  to.  How  much 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    221 

better  I  am  going  to  love  them  hereafter.  Until 
now,  what  have  they  lived  on?  What  supply  of 
grace?  On  their  baptism  and  on  the  Ave  Maria 
of  their  ancestors.  But  see!  They  have  now  done 
an  act  of  personal  faith.  And  I,  I  am  going  to 
devote  myself,  to  think  and  to  pray  so  much  that 
they  will  return  altogether.  Vive  Fonteneilles, 
Monsieur  Michel!" 

11  Vive  Fonteneilles!  I  am  as  happy  as  you, 
Monsieur  le  Cure,  and  with  a  joy  which  exceeds 
both  of  our  hopes." 

"I  have  not  dined,  I  have  not  appeared  at  the 
church  since  this  morning.  Adieu!" 

"Thanks!" 

Abbe  Roubiaux  went  on,  up  toward  the  ham- 
let. The  shadows  began  to  fall.  He  felt  the  puffs 
of  hot  wind  pass  around  him  which  the  night  was 
carrying  over  the  country,  each  breath  having  its 
music,  its  perfume,  and  its  language;  wind  of  the 
withered  alfalfa,  breath  of  the  stubble,  breath  of 
the  meadows,,  of  the  forests  and  of  the  ponds  of 
Vaux.  The  abbe"  murmured :  "  I  shall  be  a  spirit 
like  you  enveloping  them,  calming  them,  penetrat- 
ing them  with  the  invisible  life.  I  will  go  to  all 
of  them.  I  will  be  their  priest,  always  ready,  at 
all  times,  Hallelujah!" 

Upon  the  road  a  shadow  saluted  him. 

"Good-evening,  Grollier!  Where  are  you  going?" 

"To  seek  my  night's  rest." 

"Do  you  wish  to  sleep  at  my  house?" 

The  wanderer,  whose  full  game  bag,  covered  by 
his  mantle,  rounded  out  below  like  a  tent,  lifted 
up  his  bushy  beard  and  his  sneering  eyes. 


222    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

"Ah,  ah!  What  would  Philomene  say?  Grol- 
lier  at  the  cure's,  in  a  bed?  The  whole  parish 
would  laugh  at  it,  to-morrow.  Thanks,  Monsieur 
le  Cure",  I  have  an  errand  to  do,  I  too." 

He  continued  on  his  way.  The  darkness  soon 
swallowed  him  up,  together  with  the  hedges,  the 
borders  of  grass,  and  even  the  earthy  embank- 
ment of  the  road.  By  the  forest  path  he  went 
down  toward  Pas-du-Loup;  the  forest  received 
him,  concealed  him  and  gave  to  him  another  sem- 
blance, as  it  does  to  the  wild  beasts  who  are  at 
home  under  its  branches.  Jogging  along,  un- 
seen, he  glided  to  the  door  of  Gilbert  Cloquet. 
The  door  was  barred  on  the  inside.  The  hamlet 
slept ;  the  only  sound  was  the  cry  of  a  child  whose 
mother  was  quieting  it,  humming  a  lullaby. 
Grollier  made  the  tour  of  the  house,  and  pushed 
open  the  hurdle  of  the  garden  in  the  rear.  There 
he  made  out,  seated  upon  the  trunk  of  a  tree 
which  was  rotting  along  the  side  of  the  wall, 
the  figure  of  a  man,  who  was  either  thinking 
or  sleeping,  with  his  head  in  his  hands.  He 
whistled  like  a  waking  bird.  The  shadow  started 
up. 

"Are  you  looking  for  a  blow  from  a  pitchfork, 
you  tramp?" 

The  deep  voice  of  Gilbert  rang  out  in  the  gar- 
den, but  did  not  stop  Grollier  who,  with  a  move- 
ment of  his  shoulder,  freed  himself  from  his 
cloak  and  then  lifted  up  the  plump  game  bag 
which  he  carried  from  his  shoulder  belt. 

"Don't  be  frightened,  old  fellow;  it  is  I,  Grol- 
lier, who  have  come  to  make  you  a  visit. " 


THE    COMING    HARVEST   223 

"I  would  rather  see  you  another  time,  Grollier; 
to-night  I  am  in  trouble." 

"Precisely;  I  have  something  to  say  to  you 
about  your  trouble." 

Grollier,  while  Gilbert  was  seating  himself  again 
upon  the  trunk  of  the  tree,  remained  standing, 
leaning  upon  his  stick. 

"  Your  daughter,  at  whose  house  to-morrow  the 
notary  will  make  the  sale." 

"I  shall  not  be  there!  Do  not  speak  to  me  of 
her,  and  if  she  has  given  you  a  message  for  me,  do 
not  give  it!  Leave  me;  I  have  trouble  enough! 
My  daughter,  my  friends,  my  work,  my  wife  who 
is  dead,  everything." 

"Yes,  such  is  life,  is  it  not;  it  is  like  the  sea 
which  I  saw  when  I  was  little ;  they  say  that  the 
deeper  one  goes  into  it,  the  saltier  it  is.  I  cannot 
cure  you,  Cloquet,  but  I  know  you  to  be  an  hon- 
est man." 

"Well,  and  what  good  does  that  do  me?" 

"It  keeps  you  from  letting  those  who  depend 
on  you  take  what  belongs  to  other  people." 

Gilbert  sprang  up  and  seized  the  tramp's  arm. 

"Do  not  dare  to  say  that!  I  lose  all  of  my 
money,  in  the  sale  of  my  daughter.  I  lose  my 
pension  and  my  rest.  What  more  do  you  want 
me  to  give?" 

'  'Let  go  of  me,  and  listen !  When  the  bailiff  came 
to  Epine,  the  last  of  May,  you  think,  perhaps,  that 
he  noted  down  all  the  cattle  of  Lureux?" 

"Certainly  he  did." 

"You  are  mistaken." 

"How?" 


224    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

"He  could  not  put  down  on  his  paper  what 
was  in  the  forest!" 

"Hidden?" 

"Parbleu,  everybody  in  Fonteneilles  knew  it 
except  you!" 

"Thieves!  My  children,  thieves!  You  are  jok- 
ing, Grollier!  But  I'll  stop  your  wanting  to  do 
that." 

"I  am  joking  so  little^that  you  have  only  to  go 
to-night  to  the  farm  of  Epine  and  open  the  stable 
door:  and  you  will  see  that  there  are  three  cows 
less;  in  the  sheep-fold,  four  sheep  less,  in  the 
stall,  a  mare  the  less  and  the  best  one." 

"And  where  are  these  animals?" 

Grollier  wagged  his  head  to  the  right  and  to  the 
left,  to  signify  that  they  were  here  and  there  in 
the  country. 

"They  are  hidden  away  until  the  sale  is  over. 
Then  they  will  sell  them  to  their  friends.  But  the 
creditors  will  know  nothing  about  it,  nor  the  no- 
tary, nor  the  bailiff.  And  your  son-in-law  will  still 
have  some  money  with  which  to  amuse  himself, 
Gilbert!" 

The  workman  shook  the  arm  of  the  tramp 
roughly. 

"Do  not  fool  me,  Grollier,  or  I  will  hunt  you 
out  in  the  woods  and  settle  your  account.  My 
daughter  a  thief!  Cattle  hidden  away!  Tell  me 
the  names  of  the  accomplices  who  have  hidden 
the  beasts!  Tell  me,  Grollier,  and  I  will  go!" 

Grollier  coolly,  softly,  for  the  night  was  mild  and 
he  must  not  be  overheard  by  the  neighbours,  re- 
peated the  names  of  the  farms  or  of  the  persons. 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    225 

Then  he  threw  his  coat  over  his  back  and  hung 
the  game  bag  on  his  shoulder. 

"I  have  my  holes  in  the  forest;  adieu,  Gilbert. 
I  have  done  you  this  service  because  you  are  an 
honest  man.  When  I  shall  need  bread,  will  you 
give  me  some?" 

Gilbert  had  already  gone  into  the  house.  Grop- 
ing about,  he  took  a  cudgel  of  sorb  wood,  and 
locked  the  closet  where  he  kept  his  money.  When 
he  came  out  the  garden  was  deserted.  A  warm 
haze  lay  over  the  vegetables,  the  pear  trees,  bee 
hives,  and  the  forest  around.  The  moon  would 
soon  rise,  for  the  baying  of  a  stray  dog  could  be 
heard,  very  far  off.  Like  a  man  who  has  lost  his 
reason,  he  began  to  run,  jumping  over  the  fences 
made  of  dead  branches,  walking  in  the  soft  places 
of  the  meadows,  and  twirling  his  stick  of  dry  sorb 
wood.  He  ran  in  the  direction  of  Epine. 

Soon  the  house  loomed  up,  half-way  up  the  hill, 
in  the  fog  already  whitened  by  the  invisible 
moon,  the  house  where  the  sale  would  take  place 
on  the  morrow.  Gilbert  listened.  The  man  and 
his  wife  must  be  sleeping.  He  drew  nearer,  and 
placed  his  ear  against  the  lower  shutters.  Then, 
walking  with  precaution,  he  opened  the  door  of  the 
stable,  that  of  the  barn,  that  of  the  sheep-fold  and 
that  of  the  pig-sty. " 

Then,  sure  of  the  truth,  he  cried  out  in  the 
night,  with  all  his  might,  turned  toward  the  house : 

"Thieves!    Thieves!" 

And  he  set  off  on  a  run  climbing  the  shelving 
ridges  of  land  above  Epine. 


IX. 


THE  SALE  AT  LUREUX'S. 

THE  day  after  the  bailiff  had  attached  his  be- 
longings at  the  farm  of  fipine,  Lureux  had  gone 
to  the  notary.  The  latter  was  used  to  stormy  vis- 
its from  pursued  debtors.  He  listened  with  resig- 
nation to  their  protestations  and  with  a  practised 
hand  he  seized  the  first  chance  to  interrupt  and 
to  end  the  affair. 

"You  are  right  not  to  wish  to  remain  under 
the  stigma  of  an  execution.  It  is  not  pleasant  to 
see  one's  name  in  notices  and  in  the  papers,  and 
always  coupled  with  that  word.  Take  my  ad- 
vice, change  the  execution  into  a  voluntary  sale; 
have  the  look,  at  least,  of  only  being  a  farmer 
in  difficulties  who  is  disposing  voluntarily  of  his 
property." 

"But  I  should  ask  for  nothing  better.  How 
can  it  be  done?" 

"Why,  it  is  very  simple.  You  give  power  to 
your  landlord  to  sell  all  your  furniture  and  cattle; 
I  will  draw  up  the  little  document,  and  a  few 
days  later,  at  a  date  which  we  will  fix  by  common 
consent,  I  will  proceed  to  the  sale,  myself.  Do 
you  agree  to  that?" 

This  advice  was  good  for  everybody  and  was 
always  followed. 

226 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    227 

On  Sunday,  July  22d,  about  one  o'clock,  the 
notary,  who  was  getting  on  in  years,  but  who  was 
brisk  and  ruddy  still,  arrived  in  the  court  of  the 
farm  in  his  cart,  with  his  clerk  carrying  his  mo- 
rocco portfolio.  The  auctioneer  had  preceded 
them,  an  old  man,  thin  and  pale,  broad-chested, 
dressed  in  black  in  deference  to  the  law  of  which 
he  was  so  often  the  neighbour,  and  who  enjoyed 
throughout  the  country  of  Corbigny  a  sound 
reputation  on  account  of  his  facetious  humour, 
his  skill  in  making  the  bidding  go  up,  and  espe- 
cially for  his  voice,  which  was  nasal  and  dominat- 
ing, like  an  oboe.  These  three  personages,  as 
soon  as  the  cart  was  unharnessed,  arranged  the 
stage  for  the  act  which  they  had  so  many  times 
played  together. 

Already  the  ploughs,  harrows,  drills,  the  two 
muck  carts,  the  jaunting  cart,  the  mill  for  win- 
nowing grain,  laid  out  in  a  line  from  the  wells 
and  parallel  to  the  house,  formed  a  barrier  pro- 
longed on  the  other  side  of  the  well  by  an  iron  bed 
and  a  wooden  one  placed  on  the  ground  of  the 
court.  In  front,  and  along  the  walls  of  the  farm, 
stood  an  old  white  mare,  fastened  to  an  iron 
buckle,  with  her  head  in  the  shadow  and  her  body 
in  the  sun,  who  dozed  on  three  feet,  only  moving 
her  tail  to  keep  the  flies  away  from  her  shining 
crupper.  Farther  on  was  the  long  table  behind 
which  the  auctioneer  would  stand,  the  table  which 
had  stood  in  the  big  room  of  the  farm  house,  but 
was  now  encumbered  with  the  things  to  be  sold 
first:  a  gilt  clock,  andirons,  kitchen  utensils, 
sheets,  towels,  shirts,  handkerchiefs,  piles  of  plates 


228    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

and  covered  metal  dishes.  Still  farther  on,  by  the 
steps  in  front  of  the  entrance  to  Epine,  they  had 
placed  a  chair  for  the  clerk  and  a  toilet  table — 
that  of  Marie  Lureux — with  inkstand,  pen,  mem- 
orandum book  and  the  book  of  stamped  paper, 
open  at  the  first  page. 

"At  half-past  one  we  shall  begin  the  sale!" 
said  the  notary,  who  was  walking  up  and  down 
,in  the  court,  talking  with  some  clients. 

The  crowd  was  not  yet  large,  but  it  increased 
gradually.  Through  the  meadows  below,  through 
the  gaps  of  the  fields  above,  by  the  little  semi- 
circular road  which  went  down  toward  Lache 
and  began  at  the  north  of  the  court,  men  walk- 
ing slowly,  kept  coming  discreetly,  to  look  on, 
with  the  idea  of  buying  anything  that  should  go 
cheaply.  They  came  more  readily  after  the  re- 
port had  been  spread  abroad  that  the  two  Lureux's 
themselves  would  keep  in  the  back  room  of  the 
farm  house,  and  that  there  would  be  no  re- 
proaches to  be  feared  from  them.  A  few  women 
had  slipped  in  among  the  crowd,  and,  forming  a 
semicircle  among  the  men  who  were  standing  up, 
sat  down  upon  the  handles  of  the  ploughs  and  on 
the  well  curb. 

As  soon  as  the  town  clock  struck  the  half  hour, 
the  notary  threw  away  the  cigarette  which  he 
was  smoking,  approached  the  sorry-looking  clerk 
who  was  seated  and  who  arose  out  of  deference, 
and,  making  a  signal  to  the  assembled  men  to  be 
silent,  he  said  with  a  loud  voice,  his  eyes  looking 
down  on  the  book  of  stamped  paper: 

"The   year   1906,    Sunday,   July   22,   at   one 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    229 

o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  at  the  request  of  Mon- 
sieur Etienne  Lureux,  farmer  at  the  place  called 
Epine,  situated  in  the  commune  of  Fonteneilles, 
there  is  about  to  take  place  the  sale  of  the  furni- 
ture, movable  property,  and  cattle  belonging  to 
said  Lureux  and  his  wife." 

After  the  reading  of  this  preamble,  he  inter- 
rupted himself,  and  changing  his  tone  and  look- 
ing at  his  audience,  said: 

"The  usual  conditions  are  understood:  ten  per 
cent,  in  addition  to  the  price  of  the  sale;  three 
months'  credit  for  solvent  people;  everybody, 
however,  may  pay  cash." 

Then,  seeing  that  they  found  that  amusing,  he 
added : 

"Auctioneer,  to  your  guns!" 

A  few  laughs  broke  out  in  the  burning  air. 
The  men  were  red  with  heat.  The  women  sought 
the  short  shade  of  the  well.  The  auctioneer  took 
up  in  both  hands  the  clock,  ornamented  with  two 
doves  in  gilded  brass. 

"Fifteen  francs  for  the  clock,  ladies!" 

It  was  the  clock  which  Gilbert  Cloquet  had 
bought  for  his  daughter,  a  fortnight  before  the 
wedding,  and  which  he  had  carried  home  himself 
from  Corbigny,  holding  it  on  his  knees,  protecting 
it  with  his  arms,  like  a  reliquary,  while  his  future 
son-in-law  drove  the  cart  at  a  great  pace. 

"Fifteen  francs  fifty,  sixteen,  sixteen  fifty " 

Marie  Lureux's  black  braids  appeared  behind 
the  curtains  of  the  window,  quite  near.  Scarcely 
any  one  noticed  her.  The  notary  called  out: 
"Gone!"  and  the  clock  was  carried  off. 


230    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

One  after  the  other  the  things  piled  up  on  the 
long  table  were  sold  and  then  others  which  re- 
placed them  were  sold  in  their  turn.  In  spite  of 
the  auctioneer's  efforts  the  bids  were  slow. 

The  bidding  became  a  little  more  animated 
toward  three  o'clock,  when  the  notary  announced 
that  they  would  proceed  to  the  sale  of  the  horses, 
cattle,  and  sheep.  Then  a  young  village  lad, 
amused  by  his  part  of  the  work,  went  to  the 
white  mare,  unfastened  her  halter,  and  made  the 
animal  turn  around  so  as  to  show  her  off  to  the 
public.  Two  hundred  men  and  women  of  Fonte- 
neilles  and  of  the  neighbouring  village  were  pres- 
ent by  this  time.  The  farming  implements  had 
been  carried  off  and  laid  here  and  there  along  the 
hedges.  The  people  had  crowded  around  the 
table.  Murmurs  rose  and  laughter. 

"Let  us  look  at  her  teeth,"  demanded  a 
farmer. 

''She  is  old  enough,"  said  another. 

"That  is  why  she  is  white,"  said  a  third. 
"When  Lureux  used  to  drive  her,  it  seems  to  me 
that  she  had  a  coat  of  another  colour." 

"One  hundred  and  fifty  francs,"  interrupted 
the  auctioneer. 

He  was  leaning  forward,  his  hands  resting  on 
the  top  of  the  table,  his  eyes  screwed  up,  already 
seeking  the  silent  bids  in  the  eyes  of  his  nearest 
neighbours,  when  a  mocking  voice  from  the  rear 
of  the  court,  at  the  entrance  of  the  road  toward 
Ladie"  cried  out: 

"Lureux!  Show  yourself,  man,  now  is  the 
time!" 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    231 

"That's  Grollier's  voice,"  said  the  notary. 

All  the  people  had  turned  around. 

"Lureux!"  called  Grollier  again.  "Is  not  that 
your  black  mare  coming  back?  Look!" 

And,  in  fact,  a  fine  animal,  with  a  coat  of  glossy 
black,  had  just  appeared  at  the  bottom  of  the 
slope,  at  the  hollow  place  where  the  road  turns. 
She  came  slowly  up,  apparently  all  alone,  between 
the  two  thin  hedges,  going  toward  the  familiar 
stable. 

"Lureux!    There  come  three  cows  now." 

Three  white  cows  followed  the  mare,  browsing 
on  the  bramble  shoots.  • 

"Here  are  your  sheep!  They  are  all  coming 
back.  They  are  all  coming  home  to  Epine." 

A  clamour  rose  from  the  crowd  and  rolled  toward 
the  forest.  The  women's  voices  dominated. 

"Cloquet!  Gilbert  Cloquet!  It  is  he  who  is 
driving  them." 

The  tumult  increased.  Men  who  were  seated 
arose:  those  who  were  chatting  at  the  extremi- 
ties of  the  court  hurried  toward  the  opening  of  the 
road.  The  whole  mass  of  humanity,  swift  or 
slow,  urged  on  by  curiosity,  flowed  toward  the 
same  side  and  formed  two  groups,  prolonging  to 
the  middle  of  the  court  the  two  hedges  of  the 
road.  And  down  this  path  with  its  living,  mov- 
ing borders,  bristling  with  arms  and  uplifted  canes 
and  hats  waved  in  salute,  passed  the  black  mare, 
her  head  high,  frightened,  then  the  white  cows 
and  then  the  sheep,  and  then  Cloquet,  towering 
above  the  curious  crowd,  pale  with  fatigue  and 
emotion,  leaning  as  he  walked,  upon  his  wooden 


232    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

staff.  He  was  looking  straight  toward  the  house, 
and  answered  no  one.  Lureux  appeared  on  the 
threshold  of  the  farm  house.  He  had  on  his  best 
clothes,  the  ones  which  he  did  not  want  to  have 
taken  from  him.  Behind  him,  haggard  and 
trembling,  his  wife  was  speaking  to  him  and  try- 
ing to  hold  him  back.  But  he  would  not  listen. 
He  had  a  fine  bearing,  this  tiller  of  the  soil, 
trained  by  strikes  to  the  attitudes  and  words  of 
tragedy.  With  his  soft  felt  hat  lifted  up,  his 
young,  energetic  face  in  the  full  light,  his  mous- 
tache curled  upward,  his  expression  disdainful  and 
his  body  erect,  he  cried  out: 

"Drive  the  animals  back,  comrades.  Help  me 
to  chase  them  from  the  court!  They  are  not  a 
part  of  the  sale!" 

With  a  twist  of  his  body  he  escaped  from 
Marie  and  threw  himself  in  the  midst  of  the  mov- 
ing groups.  His  friends  did  not  respond,  because 
only  the  interest  of  one  person  was  at  stake. 
Several  even  tried  to  stop  Lureux.  "He  wants  to 
fight  Cloquet!  Stop  him!"  He  slipped  through 
their  outstretched  hands  and  ran  after  the  black 
mare  to  drive  her  back  to  the  road.  But  the 
frightened  animals  ran  in  all  directions,  each  one 
opening  a  path  through  the  court  which  was  like 
a  noisy  fair  ground.  Women  got  out  of  the  way, 
shrieking.  In  the  midst  of  the  hubbub  and  of 
the  surging  mass  of  humanity,  a  single  man  re- 
mained motionless  and  silent.  The  storm  raged 
around  him.  It  was  Cloquet,  his  two  hands  clasped 
on  his  stick.  Lureux  giving  up  the  pursuit  of 
his  cows  and  his  black  mare,  turned  short,  and 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    233 

flung  himself  upon  him.  He  shook  his  fists  in 
his  face. 

' '  Canaille !  You  have  betrayed  your  daughter ! ' ' 

"Down  with  your  fists!"  cried  Gilbert,  whose 
arm  cut  the  air  like  a  sabre  and  made  Lureux 
recoil. 

"Don't  hit  so  hard!" 

"Then  speak  more  civilly;  I  am  betraying  no 
one ;  I  am  bringing  back  the  animals  because  they 
belong  to  the  sale;  I  have  chased  all  night  after 
them;  I  have  them  all;  they  return  to  pay  your 
debts." 

He  looked  at  the  men,  collected  in  an  instant 
about  him,  eager,  curious,  scoffing  or  anxious, 
according  to  their  humour.  Gilbert,  so  big  and 
calm,  kept  them  silent. 

"There  is  not  one  of  you  here  who  blames  me. 
If  there  be  one.  let  him  say  so!" 

A  half  second  of  silence  and  Lureux  understood 
that  he  was  not  supported.  He  let  fall  his  fists, 
which  he  was  holding  up,  ready  to  strike.  He 
shrugged  his  shoulders  and  made  a  pretence  of 
laughing. 

"This  is  only  my  business,  I  suppose?" 

"Not  at  all;  it  is  also  mine;  I  will  not  have  it 
said  that  my  daughter  is  a  thief." 

"You  fool!  It  was  she  who  led  the  heifer  to 
the  Maison  Grise." 

1  ( You  lie,  Lureux ! " 

"She  who  begged  the  miller  of  little  Mare*  to 
take  care  of  the  black  mare.  We  did  everything 
together.  Are  you  angry  because  we  have  saved 
a  little  of  our  property?" 


234    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

"Yes,  Lureux,  I  am  angry  because  it  is  not 
just." 

"So  much  the  worse  for  justice.  The  cattle 
will  not  be  sold;  no  one  has  any  right  to  sell 
them.  Where  is  the  notary?" 

In  turning  round,  Lureux  saw  the  notary  push- 
ing his  way  with  difficulty  through  the  crowd  of 
men. 

"What  does  this  mean,  Lureux?  Is  it  true 
that  these  animals  belong  to  you?" 

"They  belong  to  me  or  to  somebody  else;  that 
makes  no  difference;  they  shall  not  be  sold.  I 
won't  allow  it." 

"You  are  not  the  first  who  has  played  me  this 
trick,  Lureux.  You  hid  them;  you  put  them  in 
other  farms." 

"Pardon,  Monsieur  le  Notaire,  the  whole  ques- 
tion depends  on  whether  the  bailiff  marked  them 
down  in  the  seizure.  You  can  read  the  inven- 
tory; they  are  not  there.  I  will  not  allow  the 
sale!" 

He  had  recovered  his  confidence.  He  eyed  the 
notary  from  head  to  foot.  He  listened  with  grow- 
ing pleasure  to  the  murmurs  around  him.  "He  is 
right — if  the  bailiff  has  not  made  a  list  of  them. 
That  is  the  law.  One  must  do  as  the  law  says. 
So  much  the  worse  for  those  who  trusted  in  him." 
But  his  pleasure  was  brief.  The  notary,  rising  on 
tiptoe,  counted  the  animals  tied  here  and  there 
around  the  court. 

"Take  the  black  mare  to  the  stable!  Lead  the 
three  cows  and  the  sheep  to  the  barn!  And 
quickly,"  he  cried.  "You  have  forgotten  only 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    235 

one  thing,  Lureux.  Have  you,  yes  or  no,  signed 
the  deed  of  acceptance  of  the  seizure? " 

"Certainly,  I  have  signed  it." 

"Very  well,  then!  In  it  you  give  me  the  power 
to  sell  all  of  your  furniture  and  live  stock,  all. 
Do  your  hear?  Gentlemen,  I  resume  the  sale. 
Follow  me!" 

He  looked  for  Gilbert  Cloquet  and  could  not 
find  him. 

Gilbert,  having  said  what  had  to  be  said,  had 
withdrawn  from  the  excited  throng.  He  had 
gone  to  the  deserted  end  of  the  court,  and  as  he 
reached  the  corner  of  the  house  where  the  path 
goes  down  toward  the  forest,  he  stood,  his  whole 
heart  turned  to  the  threshold  of  the  house  where 
Marie  was  crying,  her  forehead  bowed  against  the 
lintel  of  the  door  and  hidden  in  her  arm.  She  had 
seen  her  father  and  had  not  run  to  him.  He  called 
to  her  in  a  low  tone,  not  too  loud,  so  that  no  one 
would  hear  him. 

"Marie!  Marie!  I  have  given  you  everything, 
and  you,  you  steal  from  those  who  trust  you! 
Marie,  I  am  penniless  and  you  rob  me  besides  of 
half  my  honour!  Marie,  I  am  speaking  to  you! 
I  am  telling  you  these  things,  and  you  do  not 
answer  me!" 

She  kept  on  sobbing.  The  laughing,  chat- 
ting crowd  came,  following  the  notary.  Friends 
drew  near  and  enemies  were  coming. 

Gilbert  heard  a  voice  which  was  not  that  of 
Marie  calling  him.  He  went  away,  walking 
backward  down  the  slope  of  the  court  to  the 
place  where  the  path  goes  through  the  hedge. 


236    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

He  saw  the  auctioneer  and  the  clerk  take  their 
places  again  behind  the  table.  Then  he  saw  the 
people  stand  aside  and  Lureux  run  through  the 
midst  of  them,  enter  the  house,  and  come  out 
again  holding  in  one  hand  a  little  linen  portman- 
teau, and  with  the  other  dragging  Marie,  who  was 
trying  to  hide  herself  behind  him.  "Adieu!  Let 
me  pass!"  cried  Lureux.  "  You  have  all  betrayed 
me!  I  am  going  away  never  to  return!"  And  the 
black  felt  hat  of  Etienne  and  the  gay-flowered 
bonnet  which  Marie  wore  passed  a  little  above  the 
crowd  in  the  direction  of  Lache,  disappeared  and 
were  lost  to  sight. 

Behind  the  hedge  Gilbert  held  up  his  arms. 

"Marie!"  he  cried.  "My  poor  Marie,  you,  too, 
have  not  enough  to  live  on !  And  yet  it  is  I  who 
brought  you  up!" 

Then  correcting  himself,  he  added: 

"A  little — as  I  was  able  to." 

And  he  fled  toward  Pas-du-Loup,  pursued  by 
the  voice  of  the  auctioneer,  growing  fainter,  who 
was  saying: 

"A  fine  white  heifer  for  sale.  The  fine,  white 
heifer  brought  back  by  an  honest  man!" 

The  forest  swallowed  him  up. 

Two  days  later,  as  he  was  returning  from  work 
on  a  farm  of  Crux-la- Ville,  in  the  twilight,  in  the 
path  in  the  woods  which  the  Vorroux  crosses  and 
which  turns  toward  Fonteneilles  he  saw  Michel 
de  Meximieu.  The  young  man  was  walking 
slowly  and  in  the  same  direction.  He  stopped 
sometimes  to  listen  or  to  breathe  better.  Gilbert 
could  have  avoided  him,  as  he  had  avoided  so 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    237 

many  people  of  Fonteneilles,  since  the  day  when 
the  bailiff  had  come  to  Epine.  Shame  made  him 
uncivil.  But  this  time  he  quickened  his  steps,  and, 
before  overtaking  him,  he  coughed  to  announce 
his  presence.  Michel  did  not  turn  round,  and 
walked  on,  but  he  reached  out  his  arm  at  the 
moment  when  the  workman  passed  by  him,  and 
he  put  his  hand  affectionately  upon  Gilbert's 
shoulder,  so  that  the  latter  did  not  have  to  find 
a  pretext  for  stopping  or  for  beginning  to  talk. 
He  had  been  recognized  without  being  seen;  he 
was  pitied. 

"It  was  well  done — what  you  did  on  Sunday, 
Gilbert!" 

"It  was  sad,  also,  Monsieur  Michel." 

They  continued  walking  near  each  other  in  the 
path  where  there  was  still  a  gleam  of  light  which 
shone  on  their  faces,  and  on  the  bushes  and  the 
grass.  Michel  had  not  withdrawn  his  hand  from 
the  workman's  shoulder.  The  growing  darkness 
toned  and  blended  their  figures  together  in  the 
same  way  that  it  confused  in  brotherhood  stones, 
trees,  hills,  and  the  houses  of  men. 

"Do  you  know  what  I  often  say  to  myself  when 
I  think  of  you,  Gilbert,  and  of  a  few  others  in  the 
country,  the  best  men,  those  who  are  like  you?" 

"Why,  no.  I  did  not  even  know  that  you 
thought  of  me." 

"I  say  to  myself  that  you  have  a  spirit  above 
your  trade." 

"Sometimes,  yes,  that  might  be  so." 

"That  you  put  something  higher  than  your 
own  interest.  That  is  what  is  good,  and  what 


238    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

touches  me,  and  draws  me  so  close  to  you,  it  is 
clear,  too,  that  you  do  not  see  how  they  have 
stolen  the  truth  from  you,  from  you  and  from 
millions  of  others;  but  you  would  love  it  if  you 
could  see  it,  I  am  sure  of  that." 

"What  truth,  Monsieur  Michel?" 

"That  which  makes  you  my  equal,  and  gives 
you  the  power  to  be  more." 

They  were  silent,  one  because  he  felt  that  it 
would  be  useless  to  say  more,  the  other  because 
subjects  of  this  kind  were  not  familiar  to  him, 
and  because  he  did  not  find  the  words  to  reply. 
But  Gilbert  understood  that  this  rich  man  had  a 
fraternal  soul,  a  kind  of  devoted  and  peculiar  ten- 
derness, which  was  not  based  upon  any  apparent 
solidarity,  but  upon  the  mysterious  things  which 
each  one  guards  for  himself,  "in  his  holy  of  holies." 

The  first  star  had  risen  above  a  poplar  tree 
which  seemed  to  touch  it  with  its  slim,  straight 
point.  The  two  men  gazed  at  it,  and  somewhere 
in  space  their  souls  must  have  greeted  each  other. 
They  walked  slowly,  a  dreamy  softness  floated  in 
the  descending  night. 

"You  have  always  been  very  fair  with  me, 
Monsieur  Michel.  I  would  like  to  speak  to  you — 
I  want  one  thing. " 

"What,  my  friend?" 

"To  go  away.  After  what  has  happened,  I  can- 
not live  here  any  more.  I  no  longer  dare  look 
people  in  the  face.  I  imagine  that  they  are  all 
thinking  of  Marie  and  Lureux  when  they  meet 
me.  You  are  the  only  one  left  who  thinks  of  me. 
I  want  to  go  away." 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    239 

"What  will  you  do  away  from  here?" 

"What  I  do  here." 

"And  where  do  you  want  to  go?" 

"To  take  your  cattle,  if  you  sell  any,  in  Sep- 
tember. I  will  stay  wherever  they  go." 

Michel  replied  after  a  moment's  thought: 

"That  might  be  done,  Gilbert;  I  have  six  large 
old  oxen,  which  would  do  well  for  the  sugar  refin- 
ers. If  I  decide  to  sell  them  at  the  September 
fair,  I  will  send  you  word." 

He  held  out  his  hand  to  the  workman,  and  they 
said  nothing  more.  But  they  thought  of  each 
other  when  each  had  taken  his  own  path  through 
the  woods  which  had  become  quite  black,  and  over 
which  a  long  band  of  red  sky  weighed  like  an  iron 
bar  left  by  the  men  at  the  end  of  the  day's  work, 
to  cool  and  to  turn  brown  upon  the  anvil. 

They  saw  each  other  again  several  times  during 
the  month  of  August.  Chance  threw  them  to- 
gether at  the  corner  of  a  thicket  or  on  the  road 
of  Fonteneilles,  or  in  the  fields  near  the  chateau. 
But  where  before  they  had  simply  greeted  each 
other  and  passed  on,  now  they  took  pleasure  in 
talking  together.  And  it  was  only  Gilbert  who 
was  surprised  by  it.  When  he  had  talked  for  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  with  Michel  de  Meximieu,  he 
thought  all  the  rest  of  the  day,  and  often  for  sev- 
eral days,  of  what  they  had  talked  about,  and 
he  was  like  a  man  who  comes  back  from  a  voyage. 

About  the  middle  of  the  month,  as  they  were 
talking  at  the  corner  of  the  oat  stubble  and  the 
meadow  of  Fonteneilles  and  some  partridges  were 
drumming,  Michel  said: 


240    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

"The  fashion  is  now  to  flatter  the  workman 
and  to  rail  at  the  noble.  The  truth,  Cloquet,  is 
that  we  both  of  us  have  greatly  deteriorated. 
We  are  sick  with  the  same  diseases;  indolence 
and  pride.  All  hatred  springs  from  them.  Yet 
when  he  has  not  been  spoiled  either  by  autos  or 
by  hunting,  there  is  no  proprietor  so  well  fitted  as 
a  noble  to  act  in  concert  with  a  labourer.  We  be- 
long to  the  old  stock,  you  and  I.  And  that  is  one 
of  the  reasons  of  our  friendship." 

Gilbert  did  not  venture  to  reply,  because  he 
had  little  experience  outside  of  Fonteneilles;  but 
in  the  depth  of  his  heart  he  recognized  that  it  was 
true  for  Michel  and  for  himself.  And  he  loved 
this  man  who  spoke  freely  of  all  things. 

Another  time,  at  the  beginning  of  September, 
he  even  dared  to  ask : 

"In  spite  of  all  this  you  are  against  the  unions, 
Monsieur  Michel?  I  understand  that;  they  do 
not  belong  to  your  world,  but  they  belong  to 
mine.  Upon  that  point  we  shall  never  agree." 

"You  are  mistaken!" 

Michel  laughed.  He  felt  better  that  day.  The 
air  had  found  the  woods  full  of  life  and  was 
spreading  it  abroad.  The  thin  lips  of  the  invalid 
drank  it  in,  and  his  eyes  were  lighted  by  the  re- 
flection of  the  warm  earth,  brown  eyes  filled  with 
the  gold  light  of  youth.  He  never  lied,  nor  did  he 
calculate;  he  let  his  ardent  soul  be  seen. 

"You  are  mistaken,  Gilbert.  What  makes  me 
angry,  what  fills  me  with  sorrow  and  pity,  is  the 
ideal  of  impossible  iniquity  which  they  thrust  on 
you,  and  so  paltry  an  idea  that  not  one  of  the 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    241 

wood-cutters  of  France  in  the  past,  would  have 
been  satisfied  with  it;  your  wings  are  clipped  by 
your  chiefs  like  those  of  barn-yard  fowls;  they 
give  you  appetites  in  place  of  justice,  hatred  in 
place  of  love.  But,  listen  to  me!  All  could  be 
changed.  If  some  day  the  work  is  baptized,  if 
there  is  a  benediction  on  this  rising  sea,  Gilbert, 
living  or  dead,  I  shall  be  with  you,  I  shall  ap- 
plaud, I  shall  believe  in  a  better  earth,  that  is,  a 
nobler  one,  in  a  new  chivalry,  and  hi  the  return 
of  the  saints  to  a  happy  people.  As  truly  as  to- 
day is  bright,  that  is  what  I  hope  for.  Adieu, 
my  old  Cloquet.  I  would  like  to  have  said  many 
other  things  to  you.  I  shall  miss  not  being  able 
to  talk  to  you." 

''I  also,  Monsieur  Michel." 

Gilbert  watched  the  young  man  go  away,  fol- 
lowing him  with  his  eyes  as  long  as  he  could.  His 
heart  was  full  of  those  regrets  which  do  not  wait 
for  the  good-by  in  order  to  make  us  suffer.  He 
thought:  "I  have  a  friend,  but  as  well  say  I  had 
one,  since  I  am  going  to  leave  him." 

Gilbert  Cloquet  was  not  surprised,  therefore, 
when  he  saw  the  guard  of  Fonteneilles  coming  to 
his  house,  the  evening  before  the  fair  of  Corbigny, 
which  takes  place  on  the  second  Tuesday  of  the 
month. 

"Cloquet,"  said  Renard,  " Monsieur  le  Comte 
sends  me  to  say  to  you  that  to-morrow  he  will  sell 
his  six  great  oxen.  If  you  wish  to  take  them  to 
the  fair,  you  must  start  to-night." 

The  workman  was  cutting  vetch  in  a  field  quite 
near  the  hamlet.  He  shook  his  sabots,  which 


242    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

were  covered  with  mud,  for  it  had  rained  all  the 
morning,  then  he  passed  his  hand  through  his 
beard  to  give  himself  time  to  reflect,  and  he  said: 

"I  am  ready." 

"Monsieur  le  Comte  bade  me  to  say  to  you 
besides,  that  merchants  from  the  coast  of  Bel- 
gium, from  the  North,  from  Pas-de-Calais — " 

"Call  them  the  Picards,  then,  it  is  their  name!" 

"Well,  then!  Picards  will  be  numerous  at  Cor- 
bigny.  There  are  chances  that  our  cattle  may 
be  bought  for  the  beets  of  Picardy." 

"And  then  I  shall  make  the  journey  with  them, 
shall  I  not?" 

"You  are  not  obliged  to." 

"No,  if  any  one  forced  me  to,  I  would  not  go. 
Tell  me,  Renard;  this  is  not  to  say  anything 
against  you,  but  why  did  not  Monsieur  Michel  come 
to  speak  with  me  himself?  We  are  friends. " 

"He  is  ill,  and  in  bed.  Things  are  not  going 
well.  Au  revoir,  Gilbert.  Good  luck  with  the 
Picards!" 

Gilbert  grew  very  sad.  He  said  good-by  to  the 
guard  who  went  back  to  the  chateau.  Then  he 
took  a  handful  of  grass,  wiped  the  blade  of  his 
scythe  carefully,  and,  having  looked  at  the  sun, 
which  marked  five  o'clock  in  the  evening  upon 
the  dial  of  the  Summer  sky,  he  left  the  field  to  go 
and  close  his  house. 

Of  all  the  neighbours  of  Pas-du-Loup,  he  noti- 
fied only  Mere  Justamond.  When  he  had  put 
everything  in  order  and  as  he  wished  it  to  be 
during  his  absence,  he  dressed  himself  in  clean 
clothes,  clipped  the  end  of  his  blond  beard,  made 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    243 

a  bundle  of  clothes  to  carry  with  him,  and  then 
stretched  himself  out  on  his  bed  and  slept  a  little. 
Before  daybreak  he  rapped  on  the  window  pane 
of  the  Justamonds'  house.  It  was  all  arranged. 
The  good  woman  half  opened  the  window  and 
drew  back  at  the  same  time,  on  account  of  the 
cold  air  from  the  forest,  which  came  in. 

"Mere  Justamond,  here  is  the  key  of  my  house; 
keep  it  until  I  come  back." 

"Will  that  be  soon?" 

"I  hope  not;  I  am  sick  at  heart." 

"Cure  it,  my  poor  Cloquet.  But  that  is  not 
easy  when  the  sickness  comes  from  children.  I 
will  bear  everything  in  mind,  to  open  the  room 
when  it  is  fine,  to  watch  the  bees,  to  dig  the  po- 
tatoes, of  which  I  will  give  you  an  account. " 

"There  is  still  one  thing,"  said  Gilbert. 

"What,  then?  How  chilly  it  is  for  you  to 
start!" 

"I  will  let  you  know  my  address;  you  will 
write  me  the  news  of  Fonteneilles  and  especially 
the  news  of  Monsieur  Michel." 

The  good  woman  leaned  her  big  jovial  face  out 
of  the  window  and  Gilbert  saw,  in  the  gray  light 
of  dawn,  that  her  eyes  were  full  of  pity. 

"For  me,  I  am  not  learned  enough,"  said  she, 
"but  my  son  Etienne  and  my  daughter  know  how 
to  write  well.  If  there  is  any  news  from  Fonte- 
neilles, they  will  write  it  to  you.  It  makes  me 
feel  badly  to  see  you  go,  Gilbert,  by  being  neigh- 
bours so  long  we  have  become  like  relatives. 
Adieu." 

"Adieu." 


244    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

Half  an  hour  later  the  six  finest  oxen  from  the 
stable  of  the  chateau,  six  great,  white,  sharp-horned 
oxen,  yoked  two  by  two,  were  walking  with  their 
work-day  pace  along  the  road  of  Corbigny.  And 
upon  the  left  at  the  head  of  the  first  pair,  Gilbert 
Cloquet  carried  the  goad  stick. 


X. 


THE  FARM  OF  PAIN-FENDU. 

"ALL  right,  Cloquet!  you  will  have  your  board 
and  you  will  have  fifty  francs  a  month,  like  the 
others.  Your  oxen  are  not  shod?  " 

"No,  Monsieur;  with  us  oxen  are  not  shod  any 
more  than  sheep." 

"Take  them  to-morrow  morning,  then,  to  the 
blacksmith's  shop.  That  is  all." 

The  man  who  thus  finished  his  first  conversation 
with  Gilbert  Cloquet  in  a  small  office,  papered 
with  green  and  black  paper,  had  the  stubborn 
expression,  the  abrupt  speech,  the  square-cut 
beard  and  the  permanent  glasses  of  those  who 
have  devoted  themselves  to  the  study  of  mathe- 
matics. He  was  Monsieur  Walmery,  the  young 
owner  of  the  large  farm  of  Pain-Fendu,  a  gradu- 
ate of  the  school  of  agriculture,  son  of  a  former 
magistrate  from  the  North,  who  had  kept  him 
from  following  a  liberal  profession.  Monsieur 
Walmery  accompanied  the  new  drover  to  the  end 
of  the  corridor  which  separated  the  office  from 
the  servants'  dining-room  which  opened  on  the 
court.  There  he  called  out: 

"Jude,  these  are  the  oxen  from  Nievre;  have 
them  tethered  in  the  third  cow-shed." 

He  reentered  the  house  and  went  to  the  end  of 

245 


246    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

the  hall  where  the  pale  light  cut  in  slanting  lines 
the  faded  wall  paper,  and  for  some  moments 
after,  one  could  see  his  yellow  leggings  as  he 
talked  with  a  maid-servant.  Gilbert  Cloquet  had 
rejoined  in  the  court  his  six  Nivernais  oxen,  still 
yoked  two  by  two.  He  had  picked  up  his  goad, 
cut  from  a  piece  of  holly  wood  at  Fonteneilles, 
and,  with  his  arm  resting  over  the  neck  of  Mon- 
tagne  and  Rossigneau,  he  waited,  his  hat  on  the 
back  of  his  head,  his  tawny  beard  blown  by  the 
wind,  for  the  foreman  of  the  farm,  Jude  Heilman, 
who  was  washing  his  hands  in  a  trough  at  the 
rear  of  the  big  court  below.  The  foreman,  who 
was  doubled  over,  straightened  himself  up,  shook 
his  naked  arms  and  came  forward  pulling  down 
the  wristbands  of  his  shirt.  His  height,  his  easy 
swinging  walk,  his  youth,  the  steadfast  gaze  of 
his  gray  eyes  which  were  the  colour  of  the  North 
Sea,  and  which  began  from  afar  off  to  examine 
the  new  drover,  impressed  Gilbert.  This  giant  in 
trousers  and  shirt  had  a  small,  highly  coloured 
face,  and  the  thin  curled-up,  straw-coloured  mous- 
tache of  a  non-commissioned  officer. 

"You  are  Gilbert?"  said  he.  "A  little  too  old 
to  travel!" 

"I  might  answer  that  you  are  a  little  too  young 
to  command,  and  I  should  probably  be  no  nearer 
right  than  you  are.  You  will  judge  me  by  my 
work." 

"That's  all  right.  Don't  talk.  Go  and  unyoke 
your  beasts.  What  kind  of  an  ornament  is  that 
behind  the  yoke?  That's  a  queer  fashion!" 

He  pointed  to  the  vermilion  handle  which  the 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    247 

fanners  of  Nievre  add  to  the  yoke  of  their  oxen 
as  an  ornament. 

"That  is  the  way  our  people  mark  fine  pairs  of 
oxen.  We  are  rather  vain  at  Fonteneilles.  And 
we  have  reason  to  be!" 

With  a  light  touch  of  his  goad  on  the  muzzle 
of  Rossigneau,  he  turned  the  first  pair  of  oxen 
around  in  their  place. 

"Who  ever  saw  the  like!"  he  grumbled,  "not 
a  compliment  for  animals  like  mine!  Do  they 
even  have  oxen,  these  Picards?" 

The  six  oxen  began  walking,  with  the  air  of  a 
procession,  and  he  added: 

"Fine  oxen  t]iey  are  here,  in  Picardy!  The  best 
of  them  would  only  do  for  the  creche  de  Noel!" 

These  two  opinions  were  called  forth  by  the 
comparison,  which  every  one  in  the  court  at  that 
moment  could  make  between  the  Nivernais  oxen 
driven  by  their  driver  and  the  oxen  turned  out  to 
fatten,  penned  up  on  the  piles  of  manure.  There 
was  a  fine  rural  charm  about  the  scene.  The  six 
huge  white  oxen  paced  slowly  around  a  veritable 
field  of  heaped-up,  trampled  manure,  rising  up  to 
a  height  of  more  than  eighty  inches  above  the  soil 
of  the  court,  and  held  up  by  an  enclosure  of  iron 
bars  between  solid  posts,  as  is  done  on  estates 
where  they  like  durable  buildings.  On  this  plateau 
of  manure,  containing  more  than  six  hundred 
cart  loads  that  they  would  cart  away  later  and 
spread  on  the  fallow  lands,  and  which  made  them 
conspicuous  in  the  middle  of  the  court — walked, 
turned,  or  dozed,  forty  oxen  with  red  or  fawn- 
coloured  or  white-spotted  coats.  They  were  light- 


248    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

ly  built  beasts  bought  in  the  neighbourhood,  who 
were  to  pass  there,  upon  that  warm,  decomposing 
litter  smoking  under  their  bellies,  the  days  and 
nights  of  winter  and  autumn,  and  then  be  sent 
down  to  the  meadows  in  the  spring  to  put  on  fat, 
before  starting  for  the  slaughter  house.  Troughs 
full  of  water  were  placed  at  certain  distances,  and 
others  full  of  beet  pulp  from  the  refineries  mixed 
with  chopped  straw.  The  cattle  were  eating, 
drinking,  or  walking  in  circles  or  standing  in  quiet 
contemplation  as  suited  their  fancy.  The  enclos- 
ure had  but  one  opening,  at  the  farther  end,  the 
part  the  most  distant  from  the  house.  But  a  dog 
chained  there,  and  with  his  eyes  watching  his  pris- 
oners, guarded  this  single  door.  Pigeons,  hens, 
and  ducks  lived  with  the  cattle  upon  the  same 
manure  pile,  and  warmed  themselves  by  the  same 
hidden  fire.  A  large  passageway  led  all  around 
the  field  of  manure,  a  paved  road  where  men,  ani- 
mals, and  loaded  wagons  could  pass;  outside  the 
buildings  formed  a  long  rectangle,  the  house  of 
the  foreman,  the  stables,  a  cow-shed,  an  old 
sheep-fold,  another  cow-shed,  workshops,  barns, 
storehouses,  pig-pens,  all  with  walls  of  red  brick 
and  roofs  of  red  tiles.  All  this  enormous  appara- 
tus of  the  farm  was  commanded  by  a  monumental 
gate  hung  between  two  high  columns  of  brick  and 
crowned  by  a  pediment  also  in  brick,  but  grown 
green  with  rain  and  blackened  by  dust  and  smoke. 
Only  through  this  gate  could  you  see  from  the 
court  the  country  itself  and  a  few  green  fields. 
Nevertheless,  facing  it,  toward  the  West,  you 
realized  that  the  enclosure  of  the  walls  must  be 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    249 

prolonged  beyond  the  last  cow-shed,  and  that  there 
must  be  behind  it  a  kitchen-garden,  and,  enclosed 
in  the  rural  fortress,  some  trees,  whose  branches, 
already  stained  by  mildew,  could  be  seen  hanging 
over  a  depressed  roof. 

The  stately  procession  of  the  huge  white  oxen 
of  Nievre  made  a  striking  spectacle  in  this  frame- 
work of  red  stone,  on  its  way  around  the  manure 
pile  gilded  by  the  light,  and  one  judged  as  it  passed 
by  the  workmen  in  the  cow-sheds,  by  the  oxen  of 
Hainaut  who  stopped  eating  pulp,  and  the 
pigeons  frightened  by  such  great  horns  and 
such  giant  backbones.  All  the  farm,  excepting 
the  foreman,  who  apparently  paid  no  attention 
to  them,  seemed  to  be  saying:  "Are  they  not 
handsome!  Are  they  not  well  guided!  What  a 
beautiful  handle  of  red  wood  behind  the  yoke!" 
Gilbert  felt  himself  watched.  He  went  straight 
on,  followed  by  his  six  oxen  in  the  bright  sun- 
shine, to  the  cow-shed  where  he  found  twenty 
other  white  oxen  from  Nievre,  all  young  ones, 
three  and  four  years  old,  that  had  been  trained 
to  pull  by  the  collar.  While  unyoking  his  oxen 
he  laughed,  thinking  of  those  collars,  those  har- 
nesses which  look  like  rags,  and  which  take  away 
from  the  teams  the  sculptural  bar  of  the  yoke, 
their  unison  of  movement,  and  that  fine  twisting 
of  the  twin  heads,  which  bend  together  to  the 
effort  and  lift  themselves  up  when  all  goes  well. 

The  afternoon  was  employed  by  Gilbert  in 
taking  care  of  his  animals  and  in  visiting  the 
rural  town  of  Pain-Fendu.  The  Nivernais  drover 
had  seen  fine  farms,  certainly,  and  more  elaborate 


250    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

methods  of  culture,  perhaps,  but  nowhere  had  he 
met  under  a  single  farmer  so  extended  an  estate, 
such  vast  cow-sheds,  such  abundance  of  material, 
nor  that  industrious  air  of  a  factory,  which  he 
saw  here  in  this  frontier  corner,  nor  had  he  ever 
seen  so  rugged  and  suffering  an  expression  on  the 
earth  itself.  Already  in  coming  from  the  railway 
station,  about  a  mile  away,  he  had  felt  that  he  was 
a  stranger  in  this  flat  country  without  hedges, 
with  a  narrow  horizon  on  account  of  the  milky 
light,  which  absorbed  the  distances  and  out  of 
which  arose  only  the  undefined  silhouettes  of  vil- 
lages, bristling  with  factory  chimneys,  and  frag- 
ments of  suburbs  melting  into  the  country.  He 
did  not  know  their  names;  he  only  knew  that  the 
great  collection  of  houses,  almost  a  town,  which 
he  had  passed  through,  was  called  Onnaing. 

The  sun  and  the  flies  made  the  cattle  bellow  and 
kick  about,  penned  up  in  the  large  court;  and 
the  odour  of  manure  rose  between  the  walls.  The 
four-wheeled  wagons  which  had  carried  the 
sheaves  of  the  last  gleanings,  came  in  with  a  halo 
of  white  dust.  Oaths  could  be  heard  and  the 
noise  of  trailing  chains,  the  tread  of  horses  and  of 
oxen  trampling  the  door  sill  as  they  passed  over 
it.  Then  the  drovers  who  lodged  at  Onnaing  or 
at  Quarouble  left  the  farm.  Gilbert  Cloquet  went 
with  those  who  lived  at  Pain-Fendu,  into  the 
dining-room  on  the  basement  floor,  ornamented 
with  crude  blue  paper,  checked  with  white,  where 
the  servants  took  their  meals.  They  sat  down  at 
a  long  table  of  waxed  oak,  jugs  of  beer,  white 
plates  and  napkins — which  they  had  not  had  at 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    251 

La  Vigie.  There  were  the  two  drovers,  three  ser- 
vants employed  about  the  horses  and  the  wagon 
office,  two  women  of  the  farm,  charged  with  the 
dairy  work  and  who  smelt  of  curdled  milk,  and  at 
the  upper  end  of  the  table  the  tall  Jude  Heilman, 
with  his  fat  face,  high-coloured  and  brutal.  Near 
him  sat  his  young  wife,  and  when  Gilbert  Cloquet 
saw  her,  in  the  light  of  the  lamp  mingled  with  that 
of  the  day,  he  hesitated  to  seat  himself,  intimi- 
dated, as  if  he  had  been  in  the  presence  of  some 
great  lady  in  the  land  of  Nievre.  But  Perrine  Heil- 
man was  not  a  great  lady.  She  was  dressed  in  a 
black  gown,  protected  by  a  lavender  linen  apron 
with  shoulder-straps;  she  was  active,  simple  and 
gay,  she  had  an  eye  for  everything  from  the  kitchen 
and  the  poultry  yard  to  the  dairy  and  the  cow- 
sheds themselves,  and  those  who  knew  the  farm  of 
Pain-Fendu  were  wont  to  say  that  the  foreman 
was  the  foreman's  wife,  and  that  the  one  did  all 
the  talking  and  the  other  all  the  work.  But  Gil- 
bert saw  only  the  fair  brown  hair,  in  glossy  braids, 
twisted  around  her  head,  the  slim  and  blue- 
veined  neck,  the  rosy  face,  a  little  round,  not  of 
as  delicate  features  as  that  of  Madame  de  Mexi- 
mieu,  less  spirituelle  than  that  of  Mademoiselle 
Antoinette  Jacquemin,  but  gentle  with  a  just  will 
and  a  ready  and  discreet  kindness,  and  eyes  touched 
with  red  brown,  like  sprigs  of  mignonette,  which 
were  looking  at  him,  the  newcomer.  He  bowed 
awkwardly  as  he  had  done  in  his  youth  before  a 
statue  of  the  Madonna,  fastened  to  the  trunk  of 
an  oak  tree,  and  took  his  seat  at  the  table.  Ma- 
dame Heilman,  to  the  great  astonishment  of  Gil- 


252    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

bert,  crossed  herself  on  taking  her  place  at  the 
table,  then  she  served  the  soup  and  portioned  out 
the  boiled  beef.  The  men  ate  ravenously,  talking 
and  shouting  at  each  other.  Madame  Heilman 
laughed  sometimes  at  something  which  they  said, 
but  they  scarcely  addressed  a  word  to  her,  being 
embarrassed  by  her  lack  of  vulgarity,  more  than 
by  her  authority.  Her  husband,  erect,  towering 
by  a  head  over  all  the  others  at  the  table — and 
there  were  some  tall  men  among  them — swal- 
lowed regularly  the  soup,  bread  and  meat  and 
drank  large  draughts  of  beer,  looking  at  the  wall 
in  front  of  him  as  if,  behind  it,  he  could  see  the 
fields  where  the  harvest  was  finished,  where  the 
weary  lands  waited  and  demanded  repose.  And 
he,  in  imagination,  was  tearing  them  up,  turning 
them  over  again,  separating  them,  distributing 
their  crops,  and  forcing  them  to  life.  Vision  and 
calculation  were  rarely  absent  from  these  stead- 
fast eyes,  hard  to  the  land,  hard  to  men,  hard  to 
animals.  At  table  he  was  as  if  dumb.  He  gave  his 
orders  in  the  morning,  at  half-past  five,  or  at  six 
o'clock,  according  to  the  season,  when  all  of  the 
employees  of  the  great  land  factory  were  assem- 
bled in  the  court. 

The  supper  was  nearly  over  when  one  of  the 
drovers  took  from  his  pocket  a  pipe  and  a  package 
of  Belgian  tobacco,  crammed  his  bowl,  then, 
tipped  back  in  his  chair,  lighted  his  pipe  and  his 
face  shone  red  and  blue  through  the  light  of 
the  flame  and  smoke.  He  remained  sitting,  lean- 
ing with  his  two  elbows  upon  the  table,  while  the 
other  servants  left  the  dining-room  to  go  and 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    253 

smoke  out  doors,  or  to  take  the  fresh  air  on  the 
road  before  the  gate,  and  the  maid-servants  cleared 
away  the  plates  and  jugs.  Gilbert  had  not  spoken 
a  word.  He  also  wanted  to  smoke,  but  the  act  of 
this  Picard,  lighting  his  pipe  in  the  presence  of  the 
wife  of  the  master  and  so  near  her,  had  seemed  to 
him  rude.  That  was  not  the  way  in  Nievre,  and, 
a  little  to  give  a  lesson,  a  little,  also,  from  the  desire 
of  appearing  well,  he  moved  his  chair  away  from 
the  table,  carried  it  to  the  stove,  which  was  at  the 
end  of  the  room,  and  raising  his  cap,  said: 

"With  your  permission,  mistress?" 

He  showed  his  pipe  outstretched. 

"  Certainly,  Monsieur  Cloquet,  every  one  can 
smoke  here." 

She  had  turned  around  to  say  that,  then  she 
began  again  to  listen  to  her  husband  who,  tower- 
ing two  feet  above  her,  his  chin  drawn  in  to  his 
neck,  his  upper  lip  advancing,  was  speaking  with 
contempt,  guarding  his  voice,  and  probably 
scolding  Madame  Heilman  for  some  failure  in  the 
unlimited  and  never-ending  programme  which  she 
had  to  fill.  When  he  had  left  the  dining-room 
she  assisted  the  maids  in  putting  everything  to 
rights,  and  as  she  passed  near  Gilbert,  she  said : 

"I  saw  a  little  while  ago  the  finest  Nievre  oxen 
which  I  have  ever  seen  here.  If  they  are  as  good 
in  harness,  they  are  wonderful." 

"You  are  very  good  to  them,"  said  Gilbert, 
removing  his  cap  from  his  head  as  if  he  promised 
to  repeat  to  the  absent  what  had  just  been  said 
about  them. 

He  rose  when  he  had  finished  his  pipe.    The 


254    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

room  was  deserted.  In  the  court,  under  the  stars 
without  a  moon,  the  animals  were  sleeping,  lying 
down  or  standing  with  their  feet  apart  to  keep 
their  equilibrium  better.  Gilbert  wanted  to  know 
his  new  country.  The  great  door  remained  open 
on  the  fields  until  ten  o'clock;  after  that  the  cita- 
del was  closed  and  there  remained  only,  on  the 
flat  plain,  a  brick  fortress  against  which  the  wind 
broke  in  waves.  Gilbert  went  out,  his  hands  in  his 
pockets.  The  brick  columns  and  the  lintel  cut  out 
an  immense  square,  half  sky  and  half  plain.  A 
warm  and  tremulous  wind  passed  through  it. 
Three  men  were  seated  upon  a  pile  of  stones  to 
the  right  of  the  entrance.  Farther  away,  Gilbert 
saw  another  who  had  his  arm  placed  around  the 
waist  of  a  woman,  one  of  the  servants,  doubtless, 
A  sudden  sadness  made  him  turn  away  from  this 
corner  where  they  were  making  love.  The  drover 
leaned  his  head  oiftside  of  the  gate,  to  the  left, 
and  beyond  the  abyss  of  shadow  in  which  road, 
earth,  and  telegraph  poles  were  swallowed  up,  he 
saw  a  flame  which  gave  no  light  and  was  envel- 
oped by  a  slender  dancing  halo. 

"What  is  that?"  he  inquired. 

A  voice  replied : 

"The  tall  chimney  of  the  furnace  of  QuieVrain, 
Quievrain  in  Belgium.  Don't  you  know  any- 
thing?" 

He  did  not  reply,  but  turned  on  his  heel  and 
went  back  to  the  stable  where  he  was  to  sleep. 

His  bed  was  no  longer,  as  in  the  early  years  at 
La  Vigie,  placed  in  a  corner  of  the  stable  and  pro- 
tected against  the  horns  of  the  cattle  by  a  frame- 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    255 

work  of  wood,  but  suspended  five  feet  from  the 
ground,  in  the  midst  of  the  long  row  of  animals, 
lighted  by  a  lantern  hung  at  the  end  of  an  iron 
rod.  Gilbert  mounted  by  the  ladder,  after  having 
inspected  the  mangers  to  see  whether  his  cattle 
wanted  anything,  and  there,  above  some  thirty 
moving  backs,  lined  to  the  right  and  the  left,  and 
whose  whiteness  diminished  gradually  to  the  end 
of  the  long  building,  he  tried  to  sleep.  In  spite 
of  the  fatigue  of  the  journey  he  remained  awake 
for  a  long  time.  He  was  not  thinking  of  Marie, 
or  of  the  hamlet  of  Pas-du-Loup,  or  of  his  com- 
rades, or  of  anything  which  had  happened  so  re- 
cently. The  shame,  the  fear  of  suffering,  made  him 
drive  away  the  memories  of  the  day  before  and 
go  back  to  the  period  when  he  had  slept  in  a 
lair  very  like  this,  at  Monsieur  Fortier's.  He 
compared,  with  this  past,  what,  he  had  just  learned 
of  the  country  of  the  Picards,  and  concluded: 
"Why  have  I  come  to  Onnaing  rather  than  to 
Lyon,  or  to  the  environs  of  Paris,  or  upon  the 
table-lands  of  Champagne  where  there  are  also 
sugar  refineries?"  And  he  did  not  find  any  rea- 
son, and  therefore  he  felt  that  he  was  a  stranger, 
that  nothing  welcomed  him,  that  nothing  held 
him.  He  went  over  the  smallest  happenings  of  the 
evening,  the  faces  of  the  people.  In  spite  of  him- 
self, the  image  of  that  woman  clasped  by  a  man 
a  little  while  ago,  in  the  shadow  of  the  portal,  re- 
turnd  to  him  with  persistence  and  troubled  him. 
At  home  he  paid  little  attention  to  the  youths 
and  maids  whom  he  met  thus  courting,  except 
to  think:  "They  will  marry,  and  the  sooner 


256    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

the  better! "  But  why,  in  this  corner  of  the  Picard 
country,  should  these  visions  be  more  tenacious? 
Why  did  the  blood  of  a  drover,  who  had  already 
lived  a  long  life,  grow  hot  like  that  of  a  young 
man?  Gilbert  understood  that  the  change  was 
not  only  around  him.  He  felt  that  he  was  weaker 
than  at  Fonteneilles.  The  habitual  witnesses  of 
his  life  were  so  far,  so  far  away. 

The  stiff  breeze  of  Picardy  played  against  the 
stable  walls. 


XI. 


THE  TILLAGE  OF  PICARDY. 

THE  next  day,  having  fed  his  animals,  he  care- 
fully yoked  his  four  best  oxen  with  the  yokes  with 
red  handles,  quite  resolved  to  leave  Pain-Fendu 
if  they  obliged  him  to  change  his  beautiful  Niver- 
nais  fashion,  and,  having  stopped  his  team  before 
the  door  of  the  foreman's  house,  he  went,  with  the 
other  drivers  and  servants,  to  get  slices  of  bread 
and  butter  and  a  quart  of  beer  which  he  put  in  an 
old  game  bag  loaned  him  by  one  of  his  comrades, 
and  then  he  set  out  for  the  plain.  Heilman,  fol- 
lowing the  orders  of  the  farmer,  had  distributed 
the  work  to  the  assembled  men  and  animals. 

It  was  hard  ploughing,  far  off  on  the  side  of  the 
stream  of  Quarouble,  which  one  could  distinguish 
by  some  dwarf  willows  and  by  the  herbs,  the  only 
green  with  that  of  the  cabbages  in  the  great  space 
which  had  a  golden  hue  from  the  boundless  stretch 
of  oat  and  wheat  stubble.  Vast  plain  which  had 
forgotten  shadows!  The  earth,  parched  for 
months,  did  not  crumble  under  the  ploughshare; 
it  turned  in  long  furrows  like  rafters,  it  fell  across 
the  plough,  it  creaked,  dust  and  acrid  smoke  es- 
caped, and  the  field  mice  and  the  insects,  not  having 
been  able  to  dig  their  lairs  deep  enough,  ran  with 
the  torn-up  roots  of  grain  over  the  sabots  of  the 

257 


258    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

men.  At  a  little  distance  from  Gilbert,  other 
teams  were  ploughing.  But  they  stopped  oftener 
to  rest  than  his,  and  longer.  It  was  not  ten  o'clock 
in  the  morning  and  the  space  ploughed  by  Gilbert's 
four  oxen  made,  in  the  dull  yellow  of  the  stubble, 
a  spot  a  third  larger  than  the  others,  and  which 
smoked  like  a  miry  channel  stirred  by  the  sun. 

"Good  work,"  said  Heilman,  who  passed  in  his 
high  boots,  a  straw  hat  on  his  head;  "but  your 
oxen  will  be  foundered  before  the  week's  end." 

"Neither  they  nor  I,"  replied  Gilbert. 

"We  shall  see,  when  the  digging  of  the  beets 
comes,  fifty  acres  and  fifteen  hundred  thousand 
kilos  to  get  in  before  the  fifteenth  of  November." 

The  master  continued  his  way,  growing  smaller 
in  the  plain,  but  always  taller  than  the  drivers 
with  whom  he  stopped  a  moment  to  talk. 

In  the  evening  the  sole  topic  of  conversation  at 
Pain-Fendu  was  this  Nivernais  driver  and  his 
oxen.  Gilbert  heard  his  name  at  table,  murmured, 
praised,  or  mocked  at.  He  ate,  more  tired  a 
little  than  the  evening  before,  and  even  more  of 
a  stranger.  After  supper  he  began  to  smoke,  in 
the  same  place,  near  the  stove.  The  wife  of  the 
foreman  had  paid  no  attention  to  him,  occupied 
as  she  was  in  helping  the  men  and  in  replying  to 
the  gossip  of  the  maids  who  were  talking  of  their 
plans  for  the  next  Sunday.  But  when  the  men 
had  gone  out  she  approached  Gilbert,  as  she  had 
done  the  evening  before,  and  remaining  standing 
near  him,  who  was  still  seated,  she  asked : 

"And  what  will  you  do  with  your  day  to- 
morrow?" 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    259 

"  Nothing,  Madame  Heilman." 

"You  do  not  go  to  mass?" 

"No." 

She  placed  her  hand  upon  the  shoulder  of  the 
driver,  with  a  compassionate  gesture. 

"You  seem  to  be  unhappy,  Monsieur  Cloquet. 
A  good  worker  like  you!  Are  you  homesick  for 
your  country?" 

"No." 

"If  you  are  ill,  we  are  not  hard  here;  you  will 
be  well  cared  for!  You  must  tell  us." 

She  felt  that  she  was  looked  up  at,  as  by  a  dog 
that  one  caresses.  In  the  gleam  of  this  long  look 
she  saw  surprise,  gratitude,  emotion,  and  a  desire 
that  it  should  not  finish.  She  began  to  laugh. 

"Come!  When  you  have  been  here  a  week  you 
will  be  quite  at  home.  You  are  no  longer  a  young 
man,  and  one  would  think  you  were  a  great  child! 
My  poor  Cloquet!" 

She  went  away,  carrying  a  chair  which  she 
wished  to  put  in  its  place,  and  already  preoccu- 
pied again  by  her  work.  Gilbert  had  risen.  He 
left  the  room  without  turning  around;  he  went 
down  the  steps;  he  made  the  circuit  of  the  court 
where  the  red  cattle  were  tramping  upon  the  pile 
of  manure,  and  he  took  refuge,  quite  at  the  end  of 
the  enclosure  of  the  farm,  near  the  forge  whose  fire 
was  dead.  And  he  seated  himself,  passing  his  two 
hands  over  his  forehead  to  chase  away  the  too 
gracious  vision  and  the  words  which  kept  return- 
ing: "My  poor  Cloquet."  How  she  had  said  it! 
Yes,  as  formerly  Adele  Mirette  had  said  it,  the 
wife  whom  he  had  loved,  she  whom  he  would 


260    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

have  loved  especially  in  this  hour  of  abandon- 
ment! It  was  the  same  accent,  and  the  same 
gesture,  and,  in  the  glance,  the  same  pure  tender- 
ness. "Look  at  yourself  in  my  eyes,  my  Cloquet, 
look  at  yourself;  I  suffer  when  you  suffer!"  Oh! 
that  old  word,  never  heard  again  during  such  long 
years,  and  which  revived  suddenly,  in  the  mem- 
ory of  the  past,  and  which  overflowed  his  heart! 
She  was  so  pretty,  this  Madame  Heilman!  Gilbert 
heard  the  horses  fighting  in  the  neighbouring 
stable,  and  he  ran  there,  swearing  as  he  was  not 
accustomed  to  do,  and,  with  a  blow  of  the  double 
lash,  he  separated  them  so  brutally  that  he  said 
to  himself: 

"What  is  the  matter  with  me  this  evening, 
that  I  hurt  the  animals?" 

The  next  day,  Sunday,  he,  generally  so  eco- 
nomical, went  out  as  soon  as  his  animals  were 
cared  for,  breakfasted  and  dined  at  a  restaurant 
of  Onnaing,  and  did  not  return  to  the  farm  until 
night.  All  day  long  he  had  wandered  alone,  like 
a  soldier  who  arrives  in  a  garrison,  up  and  down 
the  road  of  Valenciennes,  and  in  the  dingy  quar- 
ters which  are  near  the  railway  station. 

Soon  the  rains  began.  The  great  ploughings 
lasting  for  weeks  occupied  and  wearied  the  men, 
horses  and  oxen.  The  sun  rose  later  and  set  more 
quickly  in  the  fogs  which  waited,  all  the  afternoon, 
rolled  at  a  little  distance  above  the  fields  where 
they  were  working,  and  which  settled  down  as 
soon  as  the  rays  of  the  sun  grew  feebler.  Then  the 
harvesting  of  the  beets  began.  In  the  soaked 
lands  Gilbert  and  his  comrades  now  drove  the 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    261 

four-wheeled  wagons,  loaded  with  beets,  to  the 
sugar  refinery  of  Onnaing.  The  six  Nivernais 
oxen  were  not  too  many  to  drag  the  wagon  from 
the  ruts  which  the  enormous  weight  hollowed 
beneath  the  iron  tires  of  the  wheels.  It  was  nec- 
essary to  stop  to  let  the  animals  breathe.  "What 
do  you  look  for  in  the  horizon,  Cloquet?  Is  it 
trees?  There  are  none  with  us.  Is  it  your  mis- 
tress? The  time  has  passed  mon  vieux!  Is  it  a 
glass  of  beer?  You  will  find  that  nearer  you!" 
They  joked  him  discreetly  because  of  his  forbid- 
ding air.  They  tried  to  question  him  to  see  what 
he  knew  of  the  world.  But  he  did  not  lend  him- 
self to  that  either.  After  a  few  fruitless  attempts 
to  draw  him  into  conversation  about  the  country 
of  Nievre  or  other  topics,  his  comrades  ceased  to 
interrupt  his  thoughtfulness  or  to  explain  it. 
They  considered  him  as  one  of  those  shepherds 
who  lose  the  habit  of  speech,  little  by  little,  and 
who  keep  to  themselves,  knowing  how  to  talk 
only  with  their  sheep  and  dogs. 

What  was  the  matter  with  him?  A  fixed  and 
bad  idea  possessed  him.  Gilbert  would  have  done 
better  to  have  left  the  farm.  He  had  spoken  to 
himself  about  it,  two  or  three  times.  But  the  will 
had  failed  him.  He  knew  that  he  was  weak,  he 
remained,  and  he  hid  himself  to  watch  the  wife  of 
Jude  Heilman  pass.  The  foreman's  wife  did  not 
appear  to  notice  the  strange  bearing  of  this  man 
who  watched  her,  evening  and  morning.  He  did 
not  approach  her,  he  gazed  at  her  crossing  the 
court,  opening  a  window  or  accompanying  a  mer- 
chant or  a  visitor.  When  he  was  near  her,  at 


262    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

meal  times,  he  was  embarrassed,  and  only  raised 
his  eyes  by  stealth;  then,  as  soon  as  the  last 
mouthful  of  bread  was  swallowed,  he  went  out. 
Since  she  had  lived  in  the  midst  of  this  floating 
world  of  servants  and  of  day-labourers,  she  had 
often  been  obliged  to  defend  herself  against  the 
one  or  the  other.  But  this  one  was  a  new  kind, 
more  sombre,  more  disquieting.  What  was  to  be 
done?  She  had  comprehended,  from  the  second 
day,  that  there  was  passion  in  the  silence  of  Gil- 
bert Cloquet,  and  she  avoided  giving  food  to  this 
bad  dream ;  but  her  manner  had  not  changed  and 
Madame  Heilman  remained  as  gay,  as  lively  and 
natural  in  the  presence  of  the  drover  as  if  she 
understood  nothing.  "If  I  have  him  sent  away," 
she  thought,  " where  will  he  go?" 

One  day,  however,  she  called  him.  It  was  in 
the  third  week  of  October.  A  butcher  of  Qui6- 
vrain  had  come  to  Pain-Fendu.  In  the  corridor 
of  the  house  he  was  talking  noisily  with  the  wife  of 
the  foreman.  He  was  a  friend  and  frequenter 
of  the  farm,  and  a  buyer  sometimes.  He  asked 
about  the  price  and  condition  of  the  cattle.  His 
name  was  Jean  Hourmel;  a  stout  man,  young, 
who  enjoyed  a  great  reputation  for  luck,  loyalty, 
and  animation  in  business,  and  who  had  a  kind  of 
jovial  quality  and  ease,  the  result  of  this  good 
reputation,  which  he  carried  with  him.  Madame 
Heilman  was  alone  at  home;  her  husband  would 
not  be  in  before  noon.  She  offered  a  glass  of  beer 
to  the  Belgian  butcher,  who  declined  with  a  wave 
of  the  hand  and  asked  to  visit  the  cow-sheds. 
The  young  woman  accompanied  him  to  the  en- 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    263 

trance  of  the  corridor,  glanced  around  the  court, 
as  if  searching  for  some  one,  said  a  few  words  in 
an  undertone  to  Monsieur  Hourmel,  and  called 
with  her  slightly  drawling  voice : 

"  Monsieur  Cloquet?" 

The  tawny  beard  and  the  clear  eyes  of  the 
Nivernais  were  framed  in  the  opening  of  a  dormer 
window. 

"  Monsieur  Cloquet,  show  Monsieur  Hourmel 
the  stables." 

The  butcher,  who  wore  upon  his  arm  a  skin  of 
gray  kid,  and  who  had  no  blouse  over  his  jacket 
such  as  most  of  his  colleagues  of  Central  France 
or  of  Paris  wear  when  they  travel,  stopped  at  first 
facing  Gilbert,  and  regarded  the  drover  with 
fixed  attention,  serious  and  silent.  His  jovial  ex- 
pression had  disappeared.  A  slight  grimace  raised 
up  the  smooth-cut  moustache.  He  finished  his 
examination  with  a  nod  of  the  head  of  which  he 
kept  the  meaning  to  himself,  and  followed  Gil- 
bert, who  knew  the  farm  perfectly,  and  could 
explain  everything.  After  the  first  moment  of 
constraint  the  conversation  grew  animated  be- 
tween the  two  men  whom  theii  calling  brought 
together.  They  chatted  of  France  and  of  Bel- 
gium, of  pasturage  and  of  trade,  and  Gilbert  was 
led  on  to  talk  about  his  youth  and  the  formation 
of  the  union  of  the  wood-cutters  of  Nievre.  The 
other  was  approving:  "I  know  about  that!  It  is 
the  same  way  with  us;  only,  you  appear  to  me  to 
be  without  religion  in  your  country?  That 
does  not  bother  us?  With  us  it  helps."  A 
little  later  he  said:  "You  must  come  to  see  me, 


264    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

Gilbert  Cloquet!"  He  was  a  kindly  man,  this 
butcher  of  Quievrain.  He  was  fraternal  with  this 
unknown  drover  met  at  the  farm;  he  had  the 
strength  which  has  no  need  of  words  to  attract, 
and  the  compassion  which  is  understood,  even 
when  it  jokes. 

"You  need  diversion;  I  can  see  that;  well, 
then,  come  to  the  grande  ducasse!" 

"What  is  that?" 

"The  fete  of  the  patron  saint  of  QuieVrain,  the 
consecration,  the  ducasse  as  they  say  with  us, 
which  is  celebrated  the  Sunday  which  follows  the 
eighteenth  of  October,  that  is  next  Sunday;  my 
wife  will  lay  a  plate  for  you." 

"I  will  go,"  said  Gilbert. 

Sunday,  the  twenty-first  of  October,  was  a  day 
of  respite  for  him  and  almost  a  joyous  day.  About 
half-past  ten,  the  drover  took  at  Onnaing  the 
tram-way  from  Valenciennes,  and  in  half  an 
hour  he  was  in  Belgium.  The  butcher's  house  was 
easily  found;  you  only  had  to  follow  the  car  line, 
then  go  up  one  street  and  take  a  turn  at  right 
angle,  and  it  was  there,  on  the  right,  at  a  short 
distance.  A  door  of  varnished  oak,  by  the  side  of 
the  butcher's  stall,  opened  on  a  room  which  served 
as  sitting  and  dining-room,  with  a  kitchen  in  the 
rear,  behind  that  was  a  court  and  the  warehouses. 
The  house  had  a  respectable  air.  The  owners  re- 
ceived Gilbert  as  a  friend,  and  Madame  Hourmel,  a 
tall,  slim  woman,  with  flat  cheeks,  and  soft  eyes  full 
of  the  anxiety  of  the  housekeeper,  did  the  honours 
as  for  a  prince.  "Sit  down,  won't  you  take  a  cup 
of  coffee?  Would  you  rather  have  beer?  Come, 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    265 

Hourmel,  put  some  coal  on  the  fire!  Monsieur 
Cloquet  must  be  cold?" 

The  poor  man  for  a  long  time  had  not  met  with 
this  eagerness  from  people  glad  to  see  him,  to  care 
for  him  and  to  cheer  him  up.  In  the  living  room 
his  shoes  stretched  out  and  smoking  against 
Madame  Hourmel's  nickelled  stove,  he  admired 
the  gay-flowered  paper  which  covered  the  walls, 
the  religious  chromo-lithographs  in  their  frames, 
the  wall  pocket  given  as  a  souvenir  by  some  shop, 
the  two  chamois  heads  in  terra-cotta,  the  chairs  of 
white  waxed  oak,  a  sideboard  in  two  compart- 
ments, whose  glass  case  was  full  of  multi-coloured 
plates  and  objects,  useless  in  so  simple  a  house- 
hold, such  as  sugar  tongs,  asparagus  forks,  fish 
knives,  spoons  of  every  shape  and  of  every  size, 
cups  and  baskets  in  glittering  metal.  He  admired 
it  all.  They  told  him  stories  of  QuieVrain.  He 
forgot  his  own  sad  one.  They  remained  a  long 
time  at  table  in  the  warmth  of  the  stove.  The 
butcher's  wife  understood  that  the  Frenchman 
had  had  great  trouble  and  that  he  was  with- 
out moral  support  of  any  kind.  She  said,  ser- 
iously, for  she  had  a  kind  of  grave  and  impartial 
goodness : 

"I  am  going  to  go  and  wait  upon  the  customers 
while  you  will  go  and  see  the  fete  of  ducasse, 
Hourmel  and  you;  but  I  beg  you,  hereafter,  to 
consider  our  house  as  that  of  one  of  your  friends." 

"Of  my  friend,  then,"  replied  Gilbert,  "for  I 
do  not  know  of  any  other,  unless  I  may  call 
Monsieur  Michel  so." 

1 '  You  have  no  friend  ?   Neither  man  nor  woman  ? 


266    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

Ah,  ha!  You  blush.  Ah!  You  should  not  have 
hidden  that  from  us!  A  Frenchman  never  grows 
old,  we  ought  to  remember  that.  Amuse  your- 
selves!" 

The  two  men  passed  the  afternoon  like  two 
children,  Gilbert  catching  a  little  of  the  gayety  of 
the  jovial  humour  of  the  butcher  Hourmel. 
They  shot  rifles  in  the  shooting  gallery;  they 
joined  at  the  play  of  the  popinjay,  in  a  meadow 
on  the  bank  of  the  Honelle,  they  watched  the 
workmen  and  women  of  Quievrain  and  Blanc- 
Misseron  dance;  they  visited  friends  who  offered 
them  coffee,  and  when,  late  in  the  evening,  they 
separated  at  the  street-car  station,  after  having 
supped  together  in  the  little  room  with  the  cham- 
ois heads,  they  were  in  high  good  humour  and 
content  to  have  made  each  other's  acquaintance. 
Hourmel  asked: 

"Au  revoir,  is  it  not?  How  much  longer  do 
you  stay  at  Pain-Fendu?" 

"  Perhaps  a  week,  perhaps  always.  But,  if  I 
stay  there  I  will  return  here." 

"In  any  case,  come  before  the  seventeenth  of 
November,"  said  Hourmel,  "for  then  I  am  going 
off  on  a  trip." 

And  the  train  disappeared  in  the  night  toward 
Onnaing. 


XII. 


THE  SQUALL. 

THE  most  dismal  weeks  of  the  year  had  come. 
All  day  and  all  night  clouds  heavy  with  rain  fol- 
lowed each  other  almost  without  intermission 
across  the  sky.  The  sea  had  put  into  them  life 
and  nourishment  for  millions  of  ears  of  grain,  for 
flowers,  trees,  and  men,  for  more  plants  and  living 
things  than  there  were  upon  the  earth.  To  the  wind 
it  had  ordered:  " Spread  abroad  this  vital  force 
and  what  is  not  needed  will  return  to  the  deep  to 
come  forth  anew."  And  the  wind  drenched  the 
countries  of  the  North.  All  through  Belgium  and 
French  Flanders  and  Holland  and  the  lower 
provinces  of  Germany  they  were  gathering  in 
with  difficulty  the  last  harvests,  carts  were  stuck 
in  the  mire,  the  wagoners  were  swearing,  and 
there  were  days  when  the  men  of  the  country 
were  shut  indoors,  waiting  for  the  clear  weather 
which  did  not  come. 

Melancholy  hours,  dangerous  for  those  who 
cherish  in  their  heart  an  unhealthy  dream. 
Before  the  end  of  the  first  fortnight  in  November, 
Monsieur  Walmery  had  had  dug  up  the  enormous 
quantity  of  sugar  beets  grown  and  ripened  upon 
fifty  acres  of  ground.  Huge  wagons  had  carried 
the  whole  harvest  to  the  sugar  works.  The 

267 


268    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

farmer  then  ordered  Heilman  to  recommence  the 
ploughing,  and,  in  spite  of  the  bad  weather,  all  the 
teams  of  the  farm  spent  ten  hours  outside,  and 
the  soaked  earth  glistened  behind  them,  smoothed 
by  the  iron  plough-shares.  The  men  protected 
their  shoulders  with  old  jackets,  or  flour  sacks,  or 
carter's  coats.  The  rain  sent  its  black  torrents 
from  east  to  west,  from  north  to  south,  and  the 
animals  themselves  had  red  eyelids,  on  account  of 
the  continuous  lashing  of  the  water.  The  wind 
shook  the  rooks  in  flight.  The  grass  whistled  over 
the  smooth-shaven  sods.  Sometimes,  the  plough- 
men returned,  unable  to  hold  out  against  the 
downfall.  And  if  it  happened  that  there  was  but 
one  left  in  the  .field,  that  one  was  always  Gilbert 
Cloquet,  to  whom  had  been  entrusted  a  new  plough 
which  the  three  pairs  of  oxen  drew,  with  lowered 
horns,  panting  in  rhythm  upon  their  straining 
legs. 

It  happened  that  on  Friday,  the  16th  of  Novem- 
ber, the  men  were  forced,  at  ten  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  to  return  in  haste  to  Pain-Fendu.  The 
sky,  covered  with  a  single  leaden  cloud  which 
seemed  motionless  and  without  a  rift,  had  poured 
down  a  penetrating,  close,  continuous  rain,  which 
beat  the  hair  of  the  beasts  and  twisted  it  into 
knots,  between  which,  at  the  touch  of  the  water 
and  the  wind,  the  red  skin  of  the  flanks  quivered. 

"The  animals  pull  no  more!"  said  Heilman. 
"It  is  enough  to  make  them  sick.  Men,  we  must 
turn  in." 

And  seeing  that  Gilbert  continued  his  plough- 
ing, he  cried: 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    269 

"The  order  is  for  everybody,  for  the  Nivernais 
as  well  as  for  the  lads  of  Flanders!" 

Gilbert  did  not  seem  to  hear  him. 

The  six  oxen,  beneath  the  pouring  rain,  con- 
tinued to  pull ;  they  walked  on,  enveloped  by  the 
mist  of  their  breath  and  by  the  vapour  which  rose 
from  their  backs.  The  drover  behind  seemed 
taller  than  usual,  in  the  blonde  aureole  of  his 
steaming  team. 

"Work  yourself  to  death,  then,  if  you  want  to, 
Nivernais!  But  if  one  of  your  oxen  is  sick,  you 
will  have  to  pay  for  it!" 

All  the  ploughs  but  one  took  the  road  back  to 
the  farm,  following  each  other.  Gilbert  remained 
alone  in  the  immense  field.  The  pale  spot  of  the 
six  oxen  travelled  over  the  smooth  soil,  in  the  rain 
under  the  low  cloud.  The  children  of  the  village 
who  looked  from  far  away  through  the  window 
panes,  said:  "What  is  that  white  thing  down 
there,  which  moves?" 

Gilbert  had  not  obeyed  because  Heilman  had 
become  hateful  to  him,  because  passion  had  taken 
possession  of  the  drover  and  made  him  crazy. 
He  no  longer  slept.  He  quarrelled  with  the  ser- 
vants for  the  most  trifling  reasons,  especially  with 
those  who  seemed  to  him  to  be  in  favour  with 
Madame  Heilman.  He  no  longer  greeted  the  fore- 
man, he  no  longer  answered  him.  The  phlegmatic 
Heilman  bore  with  this  humour  and  bothered 
himself  very  little  about  it,  knowing  that  author- 
ity is  difficult  to  exercise  in  farms  where  there  are 
always  outsiders  mixed  with  the  workmen  from 
the  neighbourhood.  He  even  made  excuses  for 


270    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

Gilbert.  "He  is  an  old  man,"  he  said,  " perhaps 
he  may  have  brought  troubles  from  home  that  we 
do  not  know  about.  And  anyway,  he  is  strong!" 
Strength  pleased  him  as  the  finest  thing  that  he 
knew. 

No,  it  was  not  the  sorrow  brought  from  home 
which  had  turned  Gilbert's  head,  it  was  the  near- 
ness of  this  beautiful  young  woman  met  on  the 
farm,  and  the  remoteness  of  familiar  things  which 
would  have  held  in  check  the  tempted  spirit 
and  the  flesh  which  was  weakening.  How  far 
away  they  were,  all  the  witnesses  of  his  honest 
life,  all  those  who  could  have  mocked  or  reproved 
or  advised!  Nothing  now  recalled  Mere  Clo- 
quet,  nor  his  childhood  wrapped  in  her  glance 
and  protected  by  it,  nor  the  years  of  love,  nor 
the  long  period  when  Gilbert  had  remained  faith- 
ful to  the  house,  the  garden,  the  bed  of  wood, 
the  pewter  spoon,  and  the  memory  of  the  dead. 
Etienne  Justamond  had  not  written.  No  news 
had  come  about  Michel.  All  his  habits  had  been 
broken  up,  the  companionship  of  his  friends, 
their  talks,  the  work  in  the  woods,  the  forest  scen- 
ery and  the  pastures.  And  in  the  emptiness,  this 
evil  desire  had  grown  and  now  it  was  the  master 
of  this  man  who  was  almost  old.  Not  a  word  had 
encouraged  him,  not  a  glance.  Gilbert  had  seen, 
indeed,  that  Madame  Heilman  kept  on  her  guard 
and  avoided  speaking  to  him  or  meeting  him. 
He  wished  evil  to  her  husband,  the  obstacle,  his 
master.  His  insane  jealousy  made  the  orders, 
the  supervision,  and  even  the  presence  of  Heilman 
odious  to  him.  At  times  he  hoped  that  a  wagon 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    271 

wheel  would  go  over  the  body  of  that  calm 
young  giant ;  he  longed  to  see  the  foreman  kicked 
by  a  horse,  or  crushed  by  a  bag  of  grain  falling 
from  the  granary,  or  that  a  ladder  should  break 
under  his  feet.  If  the  husband  should  disappear, 
the  wife  would  become  less  distant,  she  would  be 
weaker  and  less  well-guarded.  Gilbert  was  con- 
scious that  ideas  bordering  on  crime  touched  him. 
Sometimes  he  felt  a  horror  of  himself;  he  saw  his 
folly;  he  realized  that  he  had  passed  the  age  when 
he  could  please  a  woman,  and  despair  seized  him. 
"Why  live?  What  reason  is  there  for  work,  when 
no  one  pays  any  attention  to  me?  When  no  one 
will  ever  care  for  me  any  more?"  His  comrades 
said:  "What  is  the  matter  with  him  now?"  He 
spoke  to  no  one  and  he  rose  in  the  morning  without 
having  slept,  asking  himself  if  he  was  not  going 
"to  make  away  with  himself."  Then  a  woman 
came  down  the  stairway  of  the  farm  house;  a 
voice  called  the  maid;  a  hand  drew  the  curtain 
of  the  great  dining-hall;  and  ardent  desire  kindled 
itself  in  the  eyes  of  the  drover  and  fever  came  in 
his  blood,  and  he  had  the  wrinkled  eyelids  and 
the  furtive  trembling  of  a  cat  which  watches  a 
bird  near  by. 

How  he  had  changed  in  a  short  time!  Where 
was  his  idea  of  justice?  To  tell  the  truth,  he  had 
never  thought  of  extending  it  beyond  the  ques- 
tions of  his  own  interest.  Besides,  he  did  not  rea- 
son; he  loved.  The  novelty  of  the  temptation  had 
conquered  at  once  this  lonely  being. 

Gilbert,  ploughing  in  the  tempest  of  rain,  imag- 
ined, so  supreme  had  his  folly  become,  that  he 


272    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

saw  before  him,  upon  the  fallow  land  that  his 
oxen  were  going  to  break,  the  tall,  fresh  woman 
with  her  hair  dressed  like  that  of  a  lady,  and 
those  calm  eyes  which  had  had  pity  on  him,  in 
those  first  days.  He  saw  her  and  he  spoke  to  her 
aloud,  so  loud  that  the  oxen  no  longer  hearing  their 
own  names  were  bewildered  and  lost  their  spirit. 

After  an  hour,  however,  the  drover  unhar- 
nessed his  animals  and  went  back  himself.  When 
he  had  taken  care  of  his  oxen  and  had  tethered 
them  before  their  full  cribs,  he  thought  of  chang- 
ing his  clothes.  As  he  had  only  two  coats  for  his 
whole  wardrobe,  he  had  to  put  on  his  jacket  with 
horn  buttons,  and  his  broad-brimmed  felt  hat, 
and  as  his  sabots  were  drenched,  he  put  on  the 
boots  which  he  only  wore  on  Sundays.  Then  he 
rejoined  the  other  workmen. 

The  latter  were  at  work  in  the  covered  barn 
which  was  built  directly  opposite  the  house 
buildings,  on  the  other  side  of  the  court,  and  in 
the  warehouses  which  rose  farther  beyond,  form- 
ing a  third  line  of  constructions.  Heilman  had 
given  the  order  to  clean  and  oil  the  farming  uten- 
sils and  the  wagons.  The  servants,  dissatisfied, 
murmured,  saying  that  they  were  made  to  do  the 
cart-wright's  work.  They  loitered  about,  asked 
each  other  questions,  and  urged  each  other  to  stop 
work,  speaking  loud  enough  to  be  heard  by  the 
foreman  who  was  inspecting  the  stables.  As  al- 
most always  happens  when  there  are  several  who 
are  trying  not  to  work,  two  of  the  men  began  to 
quarrel  in  the  barn  where  Gilbert  had  set  himself  to 
moving  and  to  piling  up  some  thick  oaken  planks. 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    273 

The  quarrel  was  only  half  serious  and  both  men 
saw  in  it  a  means  to  drink  a  bottle  of  beer,  to  seal 
their  peace  at  Monsieur  Walmery's  expense.  They 
held  each  other  clutched  around  the  waist.  Gil- 
bert interfered. 

"Enough,"  said  he,  "Gatien,  you  will  hurt  him. 
You  are  the  stronger;  don't  be  a  coward!" 

"The  stronger?" 

Victor,  the  little  Walloon,  grown  red  as  a  tile, 
pressed  Gatien  to  the  point  of  stifling  him,  and 
threw  him  down  in  the  dust  of  the  barn,  against 
the  wheel  of  a  dismantled  wagon.  There  was  a 
shout.  Heilman  came  in  by  a  side  door,  swore 
from  habit,  and  separated  the  combatants;  but 
as  he  secretly  liked  to  watch  wrestling  and  games 
of  strength,  he  said : 

"Fine,  all  the  same.  Little  devil  of  a  Walloon! 
He  could  whip  two  such  at  a  time,  on  my  word." 

Victor,  out  of  breath  and  covered  with  dust, 
pulled  up  the  leather  belt  which  supported  his 
trousers.  He  slowly  turned  his  square  head  with 
its  gleaming,  narrow  eyes,  yellow  and  bloodshot 
like  those  of  a  bull.  He  was  standing  on  the  open 
ground,  between  the  box  of  the  dismantled  wagon 
and  the  high  pile  of  thick  oak  planks  upon  which 
Gilbert  stood.  Five  or  six  men  who  had  come  from 
the  sta.bles,  the  forge,  and  the  warehouses  watched 
him,  laughing.  Gatien  shrugged  his  shoulders  and 
retied  his  red  cravat.  The  downfall  continued 
outside.  The  rain  fell  on  the  gray  walls  along  the 
shed,  which  was  open  on  its  longest  side,  and 
shut  by  a  double  brick  partition  on  the  side  of  the 
court.  It  made  a  noise  like  a  torrent.  The  fore- 


274    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

man  felt  a  desire  for  some  diversion.    The  pun- 
gent odour  of  the  flying  dust  excited  his  nerves. 

"I  bet  on  Victor!"  he  said.  "Strong  back,  the 
little  Walloon — great  strength ' 

"What  do  you  bet?"  called  the  blacksmith 
from  a  corner. 

A  voice  near  him,  that  of  a  little  shepherd  who 
was  looking  out  the  door,  answered : 

"Hallo!  Here  comes  Madame  Heilman!  The 
one  who  wins  may  kiss  the  foreman's  wife." 

"That's  it!"  cried  loud,  amused  voices.  "Who 
will  try  for  the  wager?" 

Heilman  said  nothing.  He  consented,  indul- 
gent, like  all  the  countryside,  to  these  familiar- 
ities allowed  in  public.  He,  too,  had  seen  his 
wife  approaching.  She  came,  running,  jumping 
from  one  stone  to  another,  wearing  laced  sabots, 
with  her  head  covered  by  a  gray  knit  shawl,  which 
she  wore  on  very  cold  mornings  when  she  went  to 
superintend  the  dairy.  As  she  came  in  under  the 
vast  roof,  two  more  men  arrived  from  the  stables 
and  the  granaries,  like  pigeons  who  drop  down 
from  the  roof.  Victor  said  to  her:  "Mistress,  the 
one  who  wins  in  the  match  is  to  kiss  you!"  She 
shrugged  her  shoulders,  as  mothers  do,  who  think 
that  there  is  a  grain  of  foolishness  in  the  demands 
of  their  children  and  she  said : 

"I  came  to  tell  Heilman  that  the  beer  is 
drawn." 

She  sat  down  upon  an  oak  block  which  stood 
against  the  brick  wall  and  frowned  slightly  as 
she  saw  Gilbert,  who  had  jumped  from  the  top 
of  the  pile  of  planks  to  the  ground,  and  who  was 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    275 

preparing  to  wrestle.  With  a  twist  of  the  hand 
he  had  thrown  his  jacket  upon  the  wagon  pole 
and  he  went  up  within  two  paces  of  Victor. 

"I  challenge  you  all!"  he  said. 

"Bravo,  le  vieux!"  cried  a  voice;  "he  is  gal- 
lant!" 

"He's  not  strong!  Give  him  a  good  lesson, 
Victor!  Down  with  the  Nivernais!  Vive  the 
Walloons!" 

A  confused  racial  rivalry  stirred  in  them  all. 
They  formed  a  half  circle,  stretching  out  their 
necks  and  several  showed  their  yellow  teeth  be- 
tween their  thick  lips,  chapped  with  the  cold. 

"Look  out,  Victor!    He  is  bigger  than  you." 

"Yes,  but  he  is  thirty  years  older.  Don't  take 
your  eyes  off  him,  Victor!" 

The  two  men  were  silent,  like  duellists,  and 
each  sought,  with  his  eyes  the  place  on  the 
other's  body  where  he  was  going  to  throw  his 
arm.  But  while  the  smaller  man  bent  his  legs  and 
kept  close  to  the  ground  to  jump,  Gilbert  stood 
upright,  with  his  feet  a  little  apart,  his  hands 
high,  his  chest  and  sides  unguarded.  Victor  took 
advantage  of  what  he  judged  to  be  a  bad  position. 
He  threw  himself,  with  lowered  head,  against  the 
Nivernais,  clasped  him  at  the  level  of  the  lowest 
ribs,  and,  gathering  all  his  strength,  he  tried  to 
upset  him,  to  throw  him  to  the  left,  or  the  right, 
to  stifle  him  or  to  force  him  to  bend  his  legs.  The 
muscles  of  his  neck  knotted  beneath  the  skin. 
Gilbert  scarcely  moved;  only  his  cheeks  grew 
flushed,  and  his  mouth,  with  its  yellow  beard,  half 
opened  at  the  call  of  his  lungs  for  air.  He  let  his 


276    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

adversary  exhaust  himself.  Suddenly  the  arms 
which  he  had  kept  raised,  came  down;  he  clasped 
them  around  Victor's  bent  form,  lifted  him,  and, 
with  a  strain  of  his  back,  he  straightened  himself 
up,  and  whirled  around  the  man  so  that  his  legs 
described  a  circle  and  came  down  on  the  shoulders 
and  the  back  of  the  old  wood-cutter.  A  whirl- 
wind of  cries  of  pleasure  and  anger  mixed,  rose 
around  the  wrestlers.  "Enough!  He  is  beaten! 
No !  You  will  kill  him !  Courage ! "  Gilbert,  while 
they  were  still  shouting,  put  his  two  hands  under 
the  body  of  his  rival,  and  seizing  him  by  the  back 
and  by  the  loins,  burying  his  fingers  in  his  gar- 
ments, and  even  in  the  flesh  and  muscles,  he  lifted 
him  again,  and  held  him  out  at  arm's  length. 
Victor  howled  and  struggled.  All  the  men  had 
risen.  Heilman,  in  the  tumult  of  applause  and 
cries,  made  a  sign:  "Enough!  Let  him  go!"  Gil- 
bert dropped  his  frightened  opponent,  who  ran 
off  swearing. 

"Well,  Gilbert,"  said  Heilman,  laughing. 
"You've  won!  You  don't  fight  with  a  sluggish 
hand!  You've  learned  how?" 

"In  the  forest  one  learns  everything,"  replied 
Gilbert,  putting  on  his  jacket  again. 

"Well,  now!"  cried  a  voice.  "Isn't  he  going 
to  kiss  the  mistress?" 

"That's    his    business.-"    returned    Heilman. 
"Come,  drink,  all  of  you!    The  beer  is  drawn." 

The  men  followed  the  foreman  out  into  the 
rain  and  left  the  barn  in  close  ranks  with  clatter- 
ing sabots.  The  two  last  cast  a  glance  backward. 
The  mistress  had  remained  seated  upon  the  block 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    277 

of  oak,  against  the  brick  wall.  She  did  not  smile. 
They  disappeared. 

Gilbert  Cloquet  remained  alone  with  her.  He 
had  grown  very  pale.  He  did  not  dare  to  ap- 
proach her.  As  she  said  nothing  and  looked  at 
him  with  an  air  of  reproach  and  of  pity,  he  came 
nevertheless,  bashful  as  a  child.  The  young 
woman  looked  like  a  statue  of  a  saint,  as  little 
moved  and  as  maternal. 

"Kiss  me,  then,"  she  said,  "since  you  have 
conquered.  There  is  nothing  wrong  in  that." 

He  stooped  and  kissed  her  on  the  cheek.  She 
did  not  repel  him,  but  he  drew  away  of  himself. 

"Monsieur  Cloquet,"  she  said,  "what  is  wrong 
is  the  thought  which  you  have  in  your  heart.  Do 
you  think  that  I  have  not  seen  it?" 

He  did  not  reply,  but  he  became  pale  as  death. 
She  spoke  slowly,  her  large  eyes  wide  open  and 
full  of  divine  justice. 

"A  man  fifty  years  old!  A  man  who  has  a 
daughter  my  age,  a  daughter  married  like  myself! 
It  is  a  shame  to  persecute  me.  I  was  too  kind  to 
you  in  the  beginning." 

She  heard  a  very  low  voice  which  said: 

"Yes." 

The  man  moved  still  farther  away. 

"I  do  not  wish  to  have  you  sent  away; 
you  have  to  earn  your  bread;  but  this  must 
stop!" 

The  voice  replied : 

' '  Yes.    It  is  going  to  stop ! ' ' 

"And  immediately,  and  for  always." 

For  the  first  time  he  looked  her  full  in  the  face, 


278    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

and  she  saw  that  death  had  entered  indeed  into 
the  heart  of  the  drover. 

"Adieu!  "he  said. 

"  Where  are  you  going?  I  am  not  asking  you 
to  go  away!" 

He  did  not  reply.  He  had  turned  away,  and, 
taking  up  his  felt  hat,  he  turned  to  the  east  where 
the  barn  opened  upon  the  court,  and  the  court 
upon  the  country.  He  was  soon  out  in  the  rain. 
A  voice  from  the  farm  house  cried: 

"Here,  Cloquet,  this  way!  You  are  on  the 
wrong  road!" 

A  nearer  voice  recalled  him : 

' '  Stay,  my  poor  Cloquet !  I  am  not  sending  you 
away!  I  pity  you.  Only,  I  cannot " 

Neither  voice  stopped  the  drover  or  made  him 
slacken  his  pace.  His  tall  silhouette  was  denned 
in  the  opening  of  the  gateway  of  the  farm.  And 
Gilbert  turned  to  the  left,  walking  rapidly  in  the 
mud  of  the  road  without  seeing  anything,  through 
the  rain  which  never  ceased. 

It  was  near  noon. 

When  he  was  more  than  two  hundred  yards 
from  Pain-Fendu,  he  imagined  he  heard,  borne  on 
the  damp  air,  a  woman's  cry  and  the  word :  ' '  Re- 
turn!" But  death  was  in  his  heart.  The  poor 
man  hurried  along  the  deserted  road.  He  did  not 
feel  the  water  which  trickled  on  his  neck,  and  on 
his  hands.  "A  man  fifty  years  old!  It  is  a  shame 
to  persecute  me!  She  is  right!  I  am  not  fit  to 
live."  He  did  not  know  where  he  was  going;  he 
fled;  the  wind  blew  in  squalls.  "She  has  driven 
me  away! — I  have  no  longer  any  one  upon  the 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    279 

earth.  No  one! — What  a  life  I  have  had!  And 
this  is  the  end !  I  have  been  like  the  others — I  am 
a  wretch —  Yet,  you  began  better,  my  poor  Clo- 
quet — '  Begone,  begone !  You  must  not  return ! — 
It  is  a  shame  to  persecute  me.'  Cloquet,  it  is  to 
you  that  that  has  been  said!  Be  at  peace,  Ma- 
dame Heilman;  I  am  going  far  away,  I  shall  not 
return."  He  made  his  way  with  difficulty  against 
the  wind  and  the  rain;  the  mud  held  his  boots; 
the  cloud  like  a  roller  pressed  upon  the  dead  earth 
and  the  closed  houses. 

Cloquet  breathed  with  difficulty;  he  looked  at 
the  soaked  ground  which  fled  under  him.  The 
cold,  the  darkness,  the  weariness,  the  shame,  the 
sorrow  of  a  whole  life,  all  mingled  together,  caused 
a  mighty  madness  which  developed  under  the 
furious  driving  rain,  in  that  mist  which  weakens 
the  blood.  A  flight  of  blackbirds,  ravens,  cur- 
lews, and  lapwings,  flew  close  to  the  ground  before 
Cloquet,  who  stopped  short:  " Leave  me  alone, 
all  of  you !  Touch  me  not !  I  am  already  unhappy 
enough!"  The  wings  passed  in  the  tempest.  He 
tried  to  see  where  he  was.  On  leaving  the  farm,  he 
had  taken  the  road  which  cuts  across  the  fields 
and  passes  by  the  village  of  Quarouble,  then  follows 
along  Quievrechain.  All  the  blood  of  his  body 
had  gone  to  his  face,  and  sounded  the  charge 
around  his  brain.  Cloquet,  with  his  haggard 
eyes  looked  over  the  houses  of  Quarouble,  unde- 
fined in  the  rain  on  his  left  and  he  thought:  "I 
have  but  to  find  again  the  road  of  Valenciennes, 
and  I  will  throw  myself  under  the  train — it  passes 
often  enough.  No  one  will  even  recognize  me 


280    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

when  I  am  dead."  He  hesitated.  Shame  pushed 
him  on.  Blind  instinct  held  him  back.  Were 
those  voices  which  came  borne  on  the  wind,  from 
the  direction  of  Pain-Fendu?  No.  The  vast 
farm  was  effaced,  drowned,  obliterated  by  the 
tempest  of  rain.  The  thread  of  twisted  mud 
across  the  fields  had  no  other  passer-by  but  the 
drover.  Cloquet  saw  far  away,  in  front  of  him, 
a  little  light ;  doubtless  the  window,  lighted  by  the 
fire  of  some  house  on  the  edges  of  Quievrechain  that 
reminded  him  of  Quievrain,  which  was  quite  near, 
and  of  the  butcher,  his  friend.  His  poor,  tired,  sick 
brain  made  an  effort  to  remember  a  date.  What 
had  he  said,  Hourmel?  What  day  had  he  spoken 
of?  Was  it  the  17th?  A  journey?  His  memory 
did  not  respond.  His  ideas  became  confused.  "I 
do  not  know.  He  will  no  longer  be  there.  If  he 
were,  he  would  pity  me/'  And  it  was  this  vague 
hope,  this  half-memory  which  prevented  Gilbert 
from  turning  off  to  the  path  which  rejoined  the 
car  track.  He  started  on  again,  drenched  to  the 
skin,  exhausted,  unable  longer  to  think,  drunk 
with  misery.  And  in  the  storm  he  reached  Quie- 
vrechain, crossed  the  hamlet,  entered  Blanc-Mis- 
seron,  and  mounted  the  small  ascent  of  Quievrain. 
Then,  suddenly,  at  the  end  of  his  strength,  having 
opened  the  door  of  his  friend  Hourmel,  he  fell  at 
full  length  into  the  warm  room. 

Two  hours  later  he  awoke  in  a  bed  near  which 
Hourmel  was  watching.  The  butcher  took  the 
hand  of  the  poor  Nivernais  and  said : 

"Well,  well,  old  man,  are  you  better?    What 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    281 

possessed  you  to  come  in  such  weather?  I'll  bet 
you  lost  your  way." 

There  was  still  a  grain  of  delirium  in  Cloquet's 
glance. 

"I  had  thought  that  I  was  not  like  the  others, 
Hourmel;  I  am  like  them;  I  have  nothing  to  live 
upon." 

"Don't  be  afraid!"  replied  the  butcher,  making 
a  sign  to  his  friend  to  be  silent;  "don't  be  afraid! 
As  long  as  I  have  bread,  you  shall  not  want — keep 
quiet!  You  are  already  better." 

His  wife  entered  as  he  said  this.  She  could  not 
explain  to  herself  just  what  had  happened.  But, 
far  better  than  her  husband,  she  felt  that  poverty 
played  but  a  small  part  here.  She  said  in  a  cau- 
tious voice. 

"It's  a  pity  you  are  leaving  to-morrow,  Hour- 
mel. He  needs  to  be  consoled,  that  man  there. 
It  is  his  soul  which  is  sick.  You  should  give  up 
going  to  Fayt." 

"I  will  do  better  than  that." 

"What,  then?" 

"I  will  take  him  with  me." 

"He  may  not  be  willing  to  go." 

"Wife,  Gilbert  Cloquet  is  our  friend.  If  we 
could  put  him  on  the  path?" 

"So  be  it,"  answered  the  wife. 

The  next  morning,  Saturday,  Gilbert  rose  as 
late  as  if  he  had  been  drinking  too  heavily  the 
evening  before.  He  wished  to  take  leave  of 
Hourmel.  But  the  latter  kept  him. 

"I  am  going  on  a  journey  this  evening,"  he  said 


282    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

to  him.  "  It  was  planned  a  long  time  ago.  Since 
you  say  I  am  your  friend,  don't  let's  separate, 
come  with  me?" 

"  Where?" 

"To  Fayt-Manage,  which  is  not  very  far  from 
Quievrain." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  there?" 

The  butcher  hesitated  a  moment  before  reply- 
ing, began  to  laugh  in  spite  of  his  embarrassment, 
and  said: 

"My  friend,  there  will  be  there  a  good  many 
Belgian  comrades  who  will  do  the  same  thing.  It 
is  a  party  which  we  go  on  every  year,  as  many  as 
can.  You  do  not  know  anything  about  that,  you 
people  of  Nievre.  But  that  is  exactly  what  you 
lack.  Besides,  you  will  not  be  obliged  to  do  as 
we  do.  Come  only  out  of  friendship  for  me. 
Promise  it?" 

And  Gilbert  said  yes.  He  was  tired  of  life;  he 
was  afraid  of  being  alone.  And  in  the  evening  he 
took,  with  Hourmel,  a  train  which  carried  them 
at  first  to  Mons,  then,  about  seven  o'clock,  to 
La  Louviere. 

The  weather  had  cleared  up.  They  went  on 
foot  from  La  Louviere  to  the  hill  of  Fayt-Manage. 


XIII. 


FAYT-MANAGE. 

THE  night  was  clear.  They  followed  a  long  road, 
which  was  neither  country  nor  village  nor  town, 
sometimes  bordered  by  hedges  of  fields,  some- 
times by  close  rows  of  low  houses,  sometimes  by 
the  walls  of  factories,  or  by  iron  railings  behind 
which  one  could  imagine  a  thicket,  a  little  wood, 
and  the  broad  open  roof  of  a  villa. 

Other  similar  roads  crossed  this  one  and  went 
up  or  down.  In  the  hollows,  there  were  curves  of 
meadows  which  lost  themselves  in  the  dusk. 
Then  came  workmen's  houses,  rows  of  gas  lights 
placed  one  above  the  other  upon  a  slope  and  the 
red  light  of  a  coffee  house,  where  shadows  moved, 
succeeded  to  these  short  spaces  of  unoccupied 
land. 

Two  hours  before,  as  they  entered  the  station 
of  Quievrain,  to  buy  their  tickets,  Hourmel  had 
said  to  his  companion: 

"I  do  not  wish  to  take  you  by  surprise,  my 
poor  Gilbert.  You  have  followed  me  with  confi- 
dence, but  I  must  tell  you  what  I  am  going  to  do 
at  Fayt.  Last  May  I  promised  to  go  there. 
I,  with  many  others,  hundreds  and  thousands  of 
Belgian  comrades,  have  the  custom  of  going 
there,  from  time  to  time,  to  pass  three  days  in  a 

283 


284    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

house  of  retreat.  It  is  beautiful,  our  house  at 
Fayt;  we  are  well  off  there,  we  live  together;  we 
hear  talk  about  religion.  We  think  of  something 
else  besides  our  business.  My  heart  is  never  so  at 
peace  as  it  is  during  these  days.  But  all  the  same, 
if  you  are  afraid,  you  must  not  come." 

"We  will  see,"  answered  Gilbert;  "when  I 
have  given  my  word,  I  do  not  take  it  back." 

Hourmel  added  laughing: 

"You  will  not  be  the  first  Frenchman  whom  I 
have  brought  with  me.  They  will  receive  you 
well.  It  will  cost  you  very  little.  And  then,  if 
you  want  my  opinion,  since  you  are  so  sad,  you 
need  to  see  something  new." 

There  was  even  more  reason  than  he  knew. 
What  did  it  matter  to  Gilbert  whether  he  went 
here  or  there?  His  greatest  fear  was  to  find  him- 
self alone  to  be  seized  again  with  the  terrible 
thoughts  of  abandonment  and  death,  which  he  felt 
approach  at  the  first  moment  of  silence.  That  is 
why,  all  through  the  journey,  he  had  seemed 
almost  gay,  questioning  his  companion  unceas- 
ingly. A  feeling  of  gratitude  besides  attached  him 
to  Hourmel.  He  liked  him  not  only  for  taking 
him  in  and  caring  for  him,  but  for  another  reason 
still,  for  not  asking  him:  "What  has  happened  at 
Pain-Fendu?  Have  you  been  sent  away?  Did 
you  leave  voluntarily,  and  why?"  No,  Hourmel 
had  been  satisfied  with  the  vague  words:  "There, 
also,  I  had  more  trouble  than  I  could  bear." 

They  had  been  walking  for  half  an  hour.  Be- 
hind them  a  group  of  men  came.  They  were  evi- 
dently young,  from  the  gayety  of  their  voices, 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    285 

which  rang  out  in  the  night.  Hourmel  pointed 
out  with  his  finger,  a  belfry  on  the  hill  among  the 
leafless  trees. 

"That  is  the  church,"  he  said,  "the  house  is 
not  far  off." 

At  that  moment  the  three  men  who  were  fol- 
lowing and  who  were  about  to  pass  Hourmel, 
stopped,  and  one  of  them  said : 

"Ah!  It  is  you,  old  fellow?  You  needn't  say 
where  you  are  going!  I  am  going  there  too!" 

They  were  three  workmen  of  the  region,  two 
metallurgists  of  La  Louviere  and  a  watchman  from 
the  railway.  Each  carried  a  small  valise  or  a 
hand  bag.  After  having  named  them,  Hourmel 
presented  his  companion: 

"A  Frenchman,  one  of  my  friends,  who  is 
coming  to  see  how  things  are  done  with  us." 

"It  is  no  secret,"  answered  the  watchman, 
smiling. 

A  few  steps  farther  on  they  were  joined  by  four 
miners  of  Borinage,  who  came  from  the  other  side 
of  the  hill.  The  road  began  to  go  down.  On  the 
left,  in  the  wall  following  the  slope  a  wide  door- 
way with  two  swinging  doors  stood  open.  The 
Belgians  entered  in  groups  and,  without  waiting, 
as  if  at  home,  surrounding  Gilbert  Cloquet  who 
looked  on  curiously.  He  found  himself  in  a  gar- 
den sloping  upward.  A  gravel  path  led  around 
a  circular  grass  plot.  Beyond  and  barring  the 
garden  was  a  large  two-storied  chateau  of  white 
stone.  Shadows  were  moving  about  at  the  foot 
of  the  steps,  without  doubt  new  arrivals,  and  at 
the  top,  another  shadow  held  out  at  arm's 


286    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

length  a  lamp  which  the  wind  caused  to  smoke 
badly. 

"This  way,  Chermant!  Ah!  It  is  you,  Henin, 
and  you,  Derdael!  How  do  you  do!  It  is  cold, 
isn't  it?  Come  in  quickly." 

"Who  is  the  man  who  holds  the  light?"  asked 
Gilbert. 

"A  Jesuit  father!  They  are  the  ones  who 
preach  here." 

"I  never  saw  one  before.  He  looks  like  any 
other  priest." 

He  mounted  the  steps  of  the  stairway,  and  was 
presented  by  Hourmel,  without  being  named, 
simply  as  a  French  friend,  to  the  priest  who 
held  the  lamp  and  who  did  not  ask  anything 
more. 

"All  right,  my  dear  Hourmel.  You  will  lodge 
him  next  to  you.  Welcome,  sir.  Ah!  Here  come 
some  others!" 

And  he  leaned  again  over  the  balustrade. 

Gilbert  entered  a  well-lighted  room  full  of 
workmen  in  their  Sunday  clothes,  nearly  all  of 
whom  were  young  like  those  he  had  met  along  the 
road,  and  who  were  talking,  and  calling  to  each 
other  without  ceremony,  and  running  noisily 
through  the  corridors. 

"Ah!"  he  said,  "how  many  of  you  will  there  be 
to  sleep  here  this  evening?" 

"Between  eighty  and  ninety,"  answered  Hour- 
mel, hurrying  him  along.  "There  is  not  room  to 
lodge  more.  Come,  I  am  going  to  show  you  your 
room." 

They  went  up  to  the  second  floor.    The  view  of 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    287 

the  interior  astonished  Gilbert  less  than  the  aspect 
of  the  fagade.  The  rooms  were  very  clean,  it  is 
true,  but  without  gilt  mirrors,  without  great  cur- 
tains, without  flowered  counterpanes,  such  as  he 
had  seen  at  the  house  of  the  Count  de  Meximieu, 
or  at  Monsieur  Jacquemin's;  there  was  an  iron  bed 
with  white  sheets  and  a  counterpane,  a  table,  a 
wash  stand  of  painted  iron,  one  chair,  and  white 
walls.  The  most  agreeable  impression  was  that 
of  warmth.  Houses  are  well  heated  in  Belgium. 
The  comrades  were  noisy,  but  harmony  and  good 
humour  seemed  to  reign;  they  knew  each  other; 
they  played  school-boy  jokes;  the  majority  had 
come  several  times  to  Fayt.  "That  is  my  old 
room ;  tell  me,  father,  shall  I  take  it  again?  "  "  No, 
it  is  already  assigned."  Even  the  priests  seemed 
to  him  gay,  and  he,  being  sad,  was  alone  of  his 
kind.  "What  have  I  come  here  for?"  He  felt  a 
rising  sense  of  anger  against  himself,  and  he  said 
to  himself  that  the  next  day,  the  next  evening  at 
least,  he  would  be  able  to  go  away  without  being 
impolite.  The  preoccupation  of  not  being  rude 
and  a  little  curiosity  held  him.  He  had  supper  in 
a  large  hall,  below  the  chapel,  and  listened  with- 
out comprehending  much,  with  a  stupor  caused 
by  the  novelty  of  this  mingling  of  reading  and 
repast,  to  a  workman  in  a  jacket,  who  was  read- 
ing aloud,  lighted  by  a  lamp,  and  perched  in  a 
pulpit  on  the  left  wall. 

"Well,  Gilbert,"  asked  the  butcher  when  supper 
was  over,  and  as  the  farm  labourers  and  the  fac- 
tory workers  of  Belgium  settled  themselves  in  a 
vast  room  adjoining  the  dining-room,  and  lighted 


288    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

pipes  or  cigars,  "Well,  you  are  not  cross  with  me 
for  having  brought  you?" 

"I  do  not  know  to-day,  but  to-morrow,  it 
might  be  so." 

The  other  began  to  laugh  and  as  the  groups 
formed,  broke  up,  and  formed  again  continually 
around  the  Nivernais  wood-cutter,  their  broad 
fun,  their  companionship,  and  their  faith,  aroused 
again  in  him  the  grief  of  solitude. 

Good  people,  doubtless — one  of  them  came  to 
talk  with  Gilbert  and  questioned  him  about 
French  farms — but  so  different  from  those  whom 
he  knew! 

He  followed  the  crowd,  about  half-past  eight,  to 
the  chapel  where  the  eighty  men  in  retreat 
chanted  a  canticle  and  responded  to  the  evening 
prayer  recited  by  a  young  man  from  Flanders, 
broad-faced  and  broad-shouldered,  who  uttered 
the  words  in  a  thoughtful  voice,  in  a  voice  which 
expressed  the  faith  of  all  youth,  and  which  pene- 
trated their  hearts. 

"Who  is  that?"  demanded  Gilbert. 

"An  employee  of  the  dairy,"  replied  his  neigh- 
bour, "a  youth  who  shoots  a  bow  like  William 
Tell.  He  brought  down  the  parrot  last  Sunday." 

The  central  altar  was  of  oak  wood,  which  Gil- 
bert judged  to  be  of  good  quality,  and  well-joined. 
At  the  base  of  the  altar  was  written,  in  letters  of 
gold:  "Sanctus!  Sanctus!  Sanctus!" 

The  wood-cutter  of  France  listened  with  atten- 
tion, and  more  than  once  with  astonishment,  to 
the  first  address  made  that  evening  in  the  chapel 
of  Fayt.  The  preacher  was  a  very  large  and  very 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    289 

heavy  man,  seated  behind  a  table,  who  from  the 
beginning  mopped  his  forehead  with  a  large 
white  handkerchief  which  he  kept  in  his  hand. 
But  how  valiantly  and  forcibly  he  spoke!  He 
had  the  soul  of  the  people,  that  man,  and  when  he 
ceased  speaking,  you  imagined  that  you  heard 
his  heart  which  continued  to  say:  "I  love  you, 
my  poor  people,  and  my  life  belongs  to  you." 

Nevertheless,  Gilbert  went  to  his  bed  without 
joy  and  fell  asleep.  The  Belgian  wind  rattled  the 
panes. 

The  next  evening,  having  listened  again  three 
times  to  the  priest  who  was  conducting  the  re- 
treat, having  sung  in  common,  and  endeavoured 
with  ennui  to  think  in  the  solitude  of  his  chamber 
during  the  "free  time,"  Gilbert  resolved  to  go 
away.  After  supper  he  went  up  to  a  priest  who 
was  talking  with  some  of  the  Belgians,  a  man  of 
fifty,  who  had  carved  in  his  face  many  hollows, 
much  suffering,  and  that  transparency  of  soul 
which  embellishes  ruin  and  explains  it.  He  did 
not  know  him.  He  did  not  look  for  him.  He  met 
him.  He  was  one  of  the  Jesuits  of  the  little  band 
of  missionaries  of  Fayt-Manage,  but  not  the  one 
who  had  preached.  Gilbert  looked  at  him  only, 
without  taking  any  part  in  the  conversation 
which  was  lively  and  commonplace  as  it  must  be 
after  a  day  of  unaccustomed  fatigue  of  mind. 
The  father  separated  himself  from  the  group  and 
came  to  Gilbert : 

"You  wish,"  he  said,  "to  speak  with  me?" 

"Yes,  Monsieur  le  Cure"." 

"Come  outside,  then;  it  is  a  beautiful  night." 


290    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

He  opened  the  door  of  the  corridor  where  he 
stood,  in  the  current  of  men,  like  a  buoy  which 
stops  bits  of  passing  rushes,  and  he  went  out 
with  Gilbert.  The  night  was  blue,  starry,  silent. 
A  few  voices  penetrated  it,  coming  from  the  steps 
of  houses  built  on  the  side  of  Joliment.  The  priest 
walked  slowly  along  beside  the  wood-cutter  in  an 
avenue  of  the  park  which  made  a  gentle  ascent 
to  the  chateau  and  which  appeared  immense  in 
the  semi-obscurity. 

"You  will  pardon  me  if  I  use  the  familiar 
'thou.'  It  is  our  custom  with  those  we  love.  We 
are  not  formal  in  this  country." 

"Oh!  I  don't  mind  that.  Monsieur  le  Mar- 
quis at  home  always  spoke  to  me  that  way,  and 
also  Monsieur  Michel.  Some  people  don't  like  it. 
But  it  makes  no  difference  to  me." 

"Well!  my  friend,  what  do  you  want  to  say  to 
me?" 

Under  the  heavy  shoes  of  the  two  men  the  sand 
creaked;  the  cold  wind  drove  some  scattered 
clouds,  and  it  would  have  been  sharp  to  the  pe- 
destrians, without  the  shelter  of  the  wall.  Gilbert 
waited  to  speak  until  he  was  far  from  the  house. 

"I  am  going  to  leave  you  to-morrow  morning," 
he  said. 

"Already?" 

"I  did  not  come  to  share  the  retreat  myself, 
I  came  out  of  respect  for  the  butcher  of  Quievrain, 
and  to  tell  the  truth,  I  hardly  know  why." 

"The  hand  of  God  is  gentler  than  that  of  man," 
said  the  priest.  "It  has  led  you  without  forcing 
you,  and  now  you  want  to  go  away?  I  regret  it 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    291 

for  your  sake,  but  you  are  entirely  free.  Only 
you  must  take  your  coffee  to-morrow  morning. 
I  do  not  want  you  to  leave  fasting." 

"You  are  very  kind.  I  won't  refuse  that,  but 
how  much  do  I  owe  you?  " 

"Nothing,  my  good  friend.  The  comrades  pay 
twenty  sous  a  day  for  everything.  But  you  who 
have  remained  only  one  day,  I  am  not  willing  that 
you  should  pay.  You  have  been  an  invited  guest, 
a  dear  passer-by,  whom  I  regret." 

The  words  sank  into  Gilbert's  heart  through 
that  closed  door  of  human  tenderness.  For  a  long 
time  no  one  had  spoken  so  to  him.  He  had 
reached  the  place  where  the  avenue  turns  and 
passes  before  a  thicket  of  shrubs,  where  there  is  a 
statue  of  the  Virgin  with  the  Child.  Gilbert  looked 
on  the  other  side  at  the  long  lawn  almost  white 
under  the  moonlight,  and  beyond  it,  behind  the 
arches  of  the  leafless  branches,  at  the  facade  of  the 
house,  with  all  its  windows  aglow  in  the  night. 
Sounds  of  voices  and  bursts  of  laughter  rose  and 
died  away. 

"Tell  me,  you  have  not  been  bored  here?" 

"Oh,  no!  Not  that!  You  can  say  so  to  the 
preacher.  I  saw  that  he  had  no  contempt  for  poor 
people  and  I  saw,  too,  that  he  felt  friendship  for 
us.  That  is  what  I  need  sadly." 

"You  are  unhappy?" 

The  wood-cutter's  only  answer  was  a  sob.  He 
controlled  himself,  ashamed  of  his  weakness,  and 
coughed  to  show  that  he  was  not  crying. 

"Say  nothing,  if  you  do  not  want  to,  my  poor 
friend.  But  if  to  speak  of  your  sorrow  can  do  you 


292    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

good,  speak  to  me  of  it.  We  shall  doubtless  never 
see  each  other  again.  And  then,  you  know,  you 
will  tell  me  nothing  new.  I  have  heard  all  the 
miseries  of  life." 

"I  am  all  alone,"  said  Gilbert,  "I  am  at  the 
end  of  my  hope." 

"Your  wife  has  left  you?" 

"No,  she  is  dead.  It  is  my  daughter  who  has 
been  so  ungrateful,  and  so  wicked,  that  I  cannot 
even  tell  you  what  she  has  done.  I  am  ashamed 
of  it." 

"Had  you  other  children?" 

"No,  she  was  the  only  one.  And  even  before 
she  had  left  me,  my  comrades  had  turned  their 
backs  on  me;  I  helped  them  with  their  union; 
I  worked  to  have  justice." 

"And  they  rewarded  you  ill?     Of  course." 

"They  beat  me.  I  would  not  help  them  to  do 
wrong,  and  they  said  then  that  I  was  old." 

"You  are  not  so  at  all.  You  are  still  young  in 
appearance." 

"To  you  I  can  say,  Monsieur  le  Cure*,  that 
they  are  right.  I  feel  that  I  am  growing  old." 

"Is  that  all?    You  have  relations?" 

"No.  There  is  only  one  man  who  has  never 
betrayed  me.  I  cannot  say  that  I  would  have 
voted  for  him — no,  because  he  is  a  noble;  but 
I  love  him  all  the  same.  And  when  I  came  away 
to  the  land  of  the  Picards  with  the  oxen,  you 
understand,  he  was  already  so  ill  that  I  do  not 
know  if  he  is  still  alive." 

"Then,  what  is  there  left  to  you?" 

"Nothing,  Monsieur  le  Cure;  I  am  all  alone." 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    293 

"You  are  mistaken  there,  my  good  friend! 
God  is  left  to  you,  and  he  waits  for  you." 

"Where  is  he?" 

"Between  you  and  me.  You  do  not  know  Him, 
He  has  made  you  come  here  so  that  you  may  hear 
His  name.  Listen  to  me,  for  I  see  that  you  have 
an  upright  soul.  I  am  going  to  leave  you;  I  am 
wanted;  I  must  occupy  myself  with  others,  but 
nevertheless,  I  am  unwilling  that  you  should  go 
away  in  sadness  to  death.  Have  you  a  good 
memory?" 

"Yes,  unfortunately,  I  remember  everything." 

"Even  words?" 

"All  those  that  I  understand." 

"Then,  after  the  prayer  this  evening,  in  your 
bed,  do  not  go  to  sleep  at  once.  Pass  over  in  your 
mind  the  things  that  you  have  heard  and  which 
have  touched  your  heart;  in  the  silence  you  will 
understand  better;  and  when  you  leave  us,  I  shall 
feel  that  at  least  it  is  not  without  a  little  light, 
and  without  a  little  consolation." 

They  had  walked  back  near  the  right  wing  of 
the  great  house.  Through  the  slits  of  the  window 
shutters  the  light  from  the  lamps  struck  the  sand. 
The  abbe  stopped;  he  extended  his  arms  like 
those  of  the  cross,  and  he  said : 

"My  brother  and  my  friend,  embrace  me!" 

Gilbert  felt  a  heart  beat  against  his  heart  which 
loved  him.  He  did  not  even  know  his  name. 

In  the  silence  of  the  house  of  retreat,  at  half- 
past  nine,  when  the  lights  were  extinguished,  and 
when,  all  along  the  corridors,  in  their  rooms,  the 
companions  had  commenced  their  sleep,  Gilbert 


294    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

Cloquet  went  over  in  his  mind  the  words  he  had 
heard. 

Whole  phrases  returned  to  him  as  they  had 
been  said,  with  their  accent,  with  the  fraternal 
and  divine  life  which  they  contained. 

"My  poor  brother,  provided  you  choose  it,  you 
are  rich.  Your  work  is  a  prayer,  and  the  ap- 
peal to  justice,  even  when  it  mistakes  the  tem- 
ple, is  another.  You  raise  your  spade,  and  the 
angels  see  you;  you  are  surrounded  by  invisible 
friends;  your  pain  and  your  fatigue  spring  up  in  the 
harvest  of  glory.  Oh!  What  joy  not  to  be  judged 
by  men!  He,  He  is  infinite  pity,  boundless  good- 
ness! He  seeks  every  upright  soul.  He  has 
pardoned  the  blindness  of  the  spirit.  He  has 
pardoned  especially  the  sins  of  the  heart  and 
the  senses.  He  has  been  severe  only  to  the  hypo- 
crites. All  the  others  he  draws  them  to  himself, 
God  does  not  revile  us.  His  reproach  comes  in  a 
glance.  Lift  up  only  your  eyes,  my  brother,  and 
you  will  read  the  pardon  even  before  the  re- 
proach." 

Gilbert  thought:  "That  is  fine.  I  am,  then, 
something  noble,  I,  who  believed  myself  merely 
refuse!" 

And  other  words  flowed  through  his  memory 
like  a  tide. 

"We  are  being  tested.  The  bell  which  rings 
has  been  through  the  fire.  You  struggle  to  gain 
your  living,  and  that  is  a  most  noble  duty;  you 
go  out  in  the  morning  to  work,  you  are  in  the 
noise,  in  the  dust,  or  in  the  shadow  of  the  mine, 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    295 

or  in  the  rain  and  the  cold.  He  among  you  who 
thinks  of  his  wages  and  of  the  rest  which  he  will 
take  in  the  evening  is  not  wrong.  He  who  thinks 
of  his  children  and  of  his  wife  has  more  courage. 
If  you  would  only  think  of  God,  you  would  have 
much  courage.  You  would  suffer  no  longer.  But 
that  is,  perhaps,  beyond  your  comprehension  to- 
day. In  any  case,  you  would  no  longer  be  violent, 
but  strong;  no  longer  envious,  but  ambitious,  and 
no  longer  slaves,  but  free.  Have  not  your  fathers 
had  their  unions,  their  corporations,  their  banners 
and  their  struggles  also?  They  won  liberty. 
Upon  their  fraternal  shoulders  they  raised  their 
syndics  as  high  as  the  nobility.  After  a  noble  life 
they  had  a  glorious  death.  You  are  only  half  men 
because  you  have  been  confined  to  this  present 
life  and  forbidden  to  leave  it  even  in  thought. 
And  you  have  allowed  this!  You  are  much 
poorer  than  you  suppose.  You  have  not  the 
earth,  and  you  have  no  longer  heaven.  0  my 
well  beloved,  I  want  to  give  you  back  your  soul, 
that  beautiful  working  soul,  which  sings  as  it  la- 
bours, which  grows  rich  in  justice,  and  which  flies 
back  to  God  in  the  light." 
In  another  meditation,  the  priest  had  said : 
"The  enemies  of  the  church  continually  ask 
themselves  how  far  they  can  do  it  harm  with- 
out hurting  themselves.  But  you,  they  always 
harm.  You  are  the  ones  whom  the  evil  word 
wounds  first,  because  you  have  no  great  defence 
against  error;  you  are  the  grass  which  is  always 
cut,  over  which  they  continue  to  drive  their 
wagons  full  of  hay.  As  soon  as  they  see  the  point 


296    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

of  your  mind  rising  toward  heaven,  they  mow  you 
down,  they  shorten  you,  they  only  leave  you  your 
root  and  the  right  to  shoot  up  again.  But  they 
watch  jealously,  and  the  grass  is  never  tall." 

He  said  again: 

"I  call  you,  as  did  Saint  Vincent  de  Paul,  who 
spoke  thus: 

"  'My  heart  burns  with  the  fire  of  charity.  Ye 
poor  of  the  world,  I  carry  you  in  my  heart.  Come 
to  me,  your  poverty  calls  me.  Sons  of  vice,  come, 
children  without  mothers,  refuse  of  sin,  hearts  in 
peril,  come!' 

"  You  are  a  marvel  which  amazes  me,  you  work- 
men, who  have  come  here  for  the  retreat!  When 
I  think  of  the  many  difficulties  you  have  in  order 
to  get  a  glimpse  of  religious  truth,  and  the  many 
others  which  you  have  to  come  here,  I  feel  that  I 
am  your  admirer  as  much  as  your  friend.  You 
have  so  little  luggage  when  you  arrive:  A  paper 
sack,  a  pair  of  shoes  and  a  shirt  at  the  end  of  a 
stick.  But  the  luggage  of  truth  which  your  mind 
carries  is  still  much  smaller.  And  its  thieves  can- 
not be  numbered.  Do  you  know  what  I  believe? 
I  believe  that  you  are  the  forerunners,  the  first- 
called  of  the  crowds  who  will  arise  everywhere, 
from  the  mines,  the  factories,  the  fields,  the  hov- 
els, and  the  garrets,  demanding  again  the  heaven 
for  which  they  are  thirsty.  You  demand  it  of 
God,  you!  The  others,  they  will  demand  it  from 
men,  with  pistol  shots  and  fires,  in  revolts,  howl- 
ings,  ruins,  blasphemies;  they  will  knead  the 
land  to  see  where  it  has  been  hidden,  the 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    297 

portion  of  infinite  joy,  the  tiny  piece  of  ra- 
dium which  does  not  exhaust  itself;  they  will 
destroy  what  they  covet,  to  see  what  pleasure 
there  is  in  the  abuse  of  power!  They  will  strew 
the  streets  with  money  which  should  have  served 
for  alms,  they  will  have  everything,  except  what 
they  are  looking  for.  You  imagine  that  it  is 
bread  which  you  need?  A  little.  But  the  famine 
is  deeper.  It  is  God  whom  you  need.  Pray  to 
Him  with  me." 

The  priest  had  spoken  of  many  other  things: 
of  sin,  of  death,  of  redemption  and  of  the  family. 
In  the  last  meditation  he  had  praised  hope  as  if 
he  had  divined  the  secret  trouble  of  Gilbert : 

"My  well-beloved,  what  is  life  without  the 
faith  in  paradise?  A  horror.  You  suffer;  you 
abhor  yourselves;  you  say  it  to  each  other;  you 
prove  it;  you  fight  for  the  five  francs  that  your 
neighbour  has  laid  aside;  for  a  rabbit  skin  which 
he  may  have  more  than  you.  Self-interest  is  sad, 
always;  it  is  discontented,  always.  But  by  the 
hope  of  paradise,  the  whole  face  of  the  world  is 
changed!  You  try,  indeed,  to  make  life  more 
easy,  and  that  is  every  one's  right.  But  how  you 
rise  above  it!  How  it  loses  its  sorrow!  The  beg- 
gar! If  it  laughs  so  much  the  better;  but  if  it 
weeps,  even  trouble  has  its  value.  We  are  no 
longer  afraid  of  it,  nor  of  death.  Have  you  ever 
thought  of  that?  To  find  ourselves,  all  of  us,  not 
only  with  our  parents,  our  children,  our  friends, 
but  with  the.  noblest  of  all  the  races,  of  all  the 
ages!  The  full  assembly  of  all  the  brave,  all 


298    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

the  good,  all  noble  souls  chanting  the  same  halle- 
lujah! What  heirs  you  are!  I  counsel  you  to  be 
proud  of  it  and  to  despise  no  one.  Some  of  your 
comrades  will  be  there  whom  you  will  be  amazed 
to  meet.  You  will  go  up  to  them:  'Well,  you 
were  a  notorious  scoundrel !  I  was,  but  one  mo- 
ment has  redeemed  me.'  However  low  you  may 
have  sunk,  as  long  as  you  live  hope  is  there,  she 
descends  with  us  to  the  depths  of  the  abyss;  you 
have  only  to  call  her  and  she  lends  you  her  wings." 

All  this,  everything  indeed,  that  he  had  heard 
came  back  in  the  silence,  and  sank  deep  into  the 
wood-cutter's  heart.  Lying  in  bed,  his  eyes 
closed,  he  had  never  before  had  so  many  consecu- 
tive thoughts,  such  springs  of  tenderness  and  of 
regret,  so  many  memories  which  fought  some  for 
and  some  against.  Finally  he  said:  "I  will  go." 
The  tears  came  to  his  eyes  and  flowed  very  softly. 
A  matin  bell  rang.  Without  knowing  why,  he  sat 
upright,  he  placed  himself  on  his  knees,  as  he  was, 
upon  his  bed,  and  he  sought  for  words  to  say. 
Finding  none,  he  made  a  great  sign  of  the  cross. 
It  was  the  only  prayer  which  he  remembered.  It 
put  him  to  sleep,  as  if  sleep  had  waited  for  this 
sign  to  descend. 

The  next  morning  he  got  up  but  he  did  not  go 
away. 

The  evening  of  that  same  day,  which  was  Mon- 
day, he  went  to  find  the  priest  with  whom  he  had 
made  the  tour  of  the  park,  and  he  received  abso- 
lution for  all  that  there  was  to  be  absolved  in  his 
poor  life.  It  was  late.  Like  others,  he  had  put 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    299 

off  to  the  last  moment  this  confession  which  cost 
him  much.  On  leaving  the  cell  of  the  priest,  he 
felt  as  light  as  a  fly  in  the  sunshine.  Before  open- 
ing the  door,  he  rubbed  his  hands  with  satisfac- 
tion. He  opened  it  and  saw  four  companions  who 
were  waiting  and  he  said  to  them: 

"It  is  your  turn!  There  is  nothing  to  be  afraid 
of,  you  know!" 

"Bravo,  le  vieux!"  they  replied. 

He  followed  the  corridor  to  the  end,  entered  his 
room  and  opened  the  window  which  looked  out 
upon  the  park.  The  air,  which  was  cold,  seemed 
balmy  to  him.  There  was  undoubtedly  a  certain 
joy  fulness  floating  about  in  the  night.  The 
stars  spoke  to  Gilbert,  and  bade  him  good-morn- 
ing. He  breathed  deeply,  in  full  breaths,  his  head 
uplifted,  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  had  still  a 
child's  heart  in  his  breast.  And  it  was  of  his 
childhood,  that  very  distant  past,  that  he  dreamt 
at  first,  of  the  days  at  La  Vigie,  the  days  when 
Mere  Cloquet  waited  for  her  boy,  every  Sun- 
day, on  the  topmost  step  of  the  church.  "I  have 
been  a  long  time  coming,  mother,"  he  said,  "but 
here  I  am."  Then  he  thought  of  the  next  day, 
and  his  face  saddened.  He  lighted  his  lamp  and 
gazed  at  himself  in  the  little  round  mirror,  which 
hung  upon  the  wall.  "That  is  not  possible,"  he 
murmured,  "that  is  not  suitable."  And,  going 
out  of  his  room,  he  went  and  tapped  at  HourmePs 
door. 

The  butcher  had  begun  to  undress. 

"What  do  you  want,  Gilbert?" 

The  wood-cutter  showed  him  his  necktie,  once 


300    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

green  but  now  stained  and  faded  by  the  heavy 
wetting  it  had  received,  and  he  said  gravely: 

"I  do  not  think  that  I  can  do  this  with  such  a 
cravat." 

"It  is  certainly  not  handsome.  Do  you  want 
mine?" 

"No.  With  us,  we  are  vain,  Hourmel.  When 
my  daughter,  who  is  named  Marie,  took  her  first 
communion,  she  was  the  best-dressed  girl  in  all 
Fonteneifles.  And  my  Easter,  you  see,  ought  to 
be  like  Marie's.  For  more  than  ten  years,  and 
even  more  than  twenty,  I  have  kept  it  waiting." 

"That  is  true,"  said  Hourmel,  so  as  not  to 
oppose  his  friend. 

He  sought  to  collect  his  thoughts — all  the  mus- 
cles of  his-  heavy  face  grew  tense — and  he  remem- 
bered that  one  of  his  comrades  before  coming  to 
Fayt  had  been  at  a  wedding. 

"He  will  lend  you  his  white  cravat,  old  man, 
and  you  will  have  the  air  of  a  prince.  I  will  go 
and  ask  him  at  once." 

He  went.  The  next  day,  in  the  midst  of  the 
eighty  men  assembled  in  the  chapel  of  Fayt,  there 
was  one  who  wore  a  white  cravat,  "to  celebrate 
his  November  Easter."  He  was  the  son  of  Mere 
Cloquet. 

When  they  saw  that  he  remained  at  Fayt,  espe- 
cially when  'they  knew  that  he  had  returned  to  the 
faith,  the  Belgian  comrades  showed  him  their 
friendship,  which  expressed  itself  in  many  ways; 
in  smiles,  words,  and  shaking  of  hands,  tactfully 
and  fraternally.  "Well!"  said  one,  "you  must 
be  satisfied!"  then  afraid  of  having  offended  the 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    301 

wood-cutter:  "It  was  just  what  happened  to 
me,  you  know.  I  was  behind  in  my  account  for 
several  years,  and  now  I  am  out  of  debt!"  An- 
other said:  "Tell  me,  you  who  are  from  the  other 
side  of  the  frontier,  do  you  not  find  this  strange? 
Three  days  ago  I  did  not  know  you,  and  to-day  it 
is  as  if  we  had  lived  together  always."  Gilbert 
replied:  "Yes,  when  we  arrived  here  we  were  of 
all  kinds;  now  there  is  only  one  kind."  A  great 
number  of  them  gave  him  invitations;  those 
whose  rooms  were  near  his,  or  who  sat  near  him 
at  table,  miners  or  metallurgists  of  La  Louviere : 
"Come  and  stay  a  while  with  us?" 
But  Gilbert  thanked  them  and  answered : 
"I  cannot;  I  am  going  back  with  Hourmel, 
and  after  that  I  have  my  own  country  which  I 
must  see  again." 

The  whole  of  the  night  preceding  the  "Novem- 
ber Easter"  he  had  thought  over  what  he  must  do. 


XIV. 


THE  RETURN. 

HE  left  Fayt-Manage  on  Tuesday  in  the  after- 
noon, in  company  with  the  butcher  of  Quievrain. 
On  foot,  side  by  side,  they  travelled  again  the  road 
from  Fayt  to  La  Louviere.  Gilbert  was  silent.  He 
asked  himself  if  the  joy  which  he  felt  did  not  come 
from  the  companionship  of  the  Belgian  mission- 
aries and  workmen,  from  the  park  and  the  chant- 
ing, from  the  presence  of  these  things  and  their 
novelty.  But  no;  as  he  went  away,  he  felt  that 
the  peace  was  within  himself,  and  living.  At  La 
Louviere,  they  took  the  railway  train.  The  light 
was  fading,  although  it  was  not  late.  It  was  cold; 
it  was  cloudy.  The  roadsides,  planted  with  trees, 
the  fields,  sowed  or  ploughed,  bordered  with  houses, 
the  knolls  of  the  coal-mines,  the  hamlets  where 
twenty  factory  chimneys  smoked  above  the 
sprouting  wheat — all  these  passed  by,  and  yet 
his  contentment  did  not  pass.  Pressed  close 
against  each  other,  the  collars  of  their  jackets 
turned  up,  silk  handkerchiefs  around  their  necks, 
the  two  men,  seated  upon  the  same  bench,  watched 
the  fleeing  landscape  as  it  was  swallowed  up  in  the 
shadow.  The  butcher  named  the  villages,  the 
people,  and  the  farms.  He  had  returned  to  his 

302 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    303 

every-day  thoughts.  Not  so  Gilbert.  With  his 
arms  crossed,  he  pressed  his  thin  garment  and 
covering  closely  against  himself,  and  he  did  so 
undoubtedly  to  protect  himself  from  the  cold, 
but  also  secretly,  to  hold  within  bounds  a  certain 
young  voice,  which  longed  to  speak,  to  cry  out, 
to  break  loose;  and  which  was  his  happy  soul. 
And  not  being  accustomed  to  it,  he  was  aston- 
ished at  this  joy  which  lasted. 

"Well,"  said  the  butcher,  when  they  had 
arrived  at  his  house  at  Quievrain,  "I  think  that 
you  have  changed  your  mind  and  that  you  will 
stay  at  least  until. to-morrow?" 

"I  cannot,  even  with  you;  I  must  go  back  to 
my  country.  I  wished  never  to  see  it  again,  be- 
cause I  suffered  there.  Now,  do  you  know  why 
I  am  no  longer  afraid  to  return  there?" 

"I  can  imagine- that,"  answered  the  tranquil 
Belgian. 

"You  can  imagine  it  because  you  have  always 
been  as  I  am  now.  But  I  am  astonished  at  what 
I  am  doing.  I  return  to  my  people  because  I  have 
no  longer  the  same  heart;  sorrow  makes  no  dif- 
ference to  me." 

And  as  Hourmel  insisted  on  keeping  his  friend, 
Gilbert  said: 

"My  strength  has  grown,  but  I  begin  to  grow 
old,  and  I  think  that  I  shall  die  a  poor  man." 

This  he  said  in  the  presence  of  HourmePs  wife 
who,  attentive  and  moved,  was  holding  a  lighted 
lamp  before  the  faces  of  the  two  travellers.  She 
would  have  liked  to  know  what  had  happened. 
Yet  when  she  heard  Gilbert  speak,  she  did  not 


ask  any  question.  She  said,  letting  all  her  soul 
be  seen  in  her  worn,  transparent  face : 

"  Husband,  we  must  not  hold  back  those  who 
are  going  to  their  duty.  There  are  too  few  of 
them.  Monsieur  Cloquet  will  leave  us  after  he 
has  had  a  glass  of  beer." 

After  the  two  men  had  touched  their  glasses 
together,  Gilbert  bade  farewell  to  the  butcher 
and  to  Madame  Hourmel.  And,  all  alone,  he 
plunged  between  the  houses  of  Quievrain  toward 
the  frontier  of  France  and  toward  his  new  destiny. 

The  train  soon  carried  him  to  Onnaing.  Then 
Gilbert  was  seized  with  anguish.  He  was  about 
to  see  again  the  farm  of  Pain-Fendu.  Until  then, 
this  thought  had  only  passed  swiftly  through  his 
mind  between  two  long  moments  of  calm,  like  a 
shower.  Now  it  did  not  leave  him.  Must  he  not 
go  in,  settle  his  accounts,  and  get  the  few  clothes 
left  in  the  loft?  He  took  the  street  which  went  by 
the  church.  In  the  factories  the  furnace  fires 
were  extinguished.  At  the  doorways,  children 
were  eating  a  piece  of  bread  before  going  to  bed; 
men  were  standing,  breathing  in  the  night  air 
after  so  many  hours  in  the  workshops;  they  were 
illumined  by  the  lamps  within,  and  their  garments, 
weary  like  themselves,  hung  in  soft  folds  along 
their  bodies.  Gilbert,  in  passing,  envied  them 
because  they  had  a  shelter.  A  great  wave  of  pity 
for  himself  tempted  him  and  said  to  him:  "Yield 
to  me."  When  he  reached  the  plain  and  knew 
from  the  gigantic  shadow  which  it  made  in  the 
desert  of  the  fallow  land  that  the  farm  lay  before 
him,  he  was  afraid.  "It  is  not  Heilman,  however, 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    305 

whom  I  fear,"  he  thought.  "If  he  wishes  to  beat 
me,  I  will  let  myself  be  beaten  for  the  first  time  in 
my  life.  I  have  deserved  it."  No,  he  was  afraid 
of  himself,  of  a  desire  which  he  felt  stirring  and 
growing  in  his  heart,  that  of  finding  himself  near 
the  wife  of  the  foreman  and  of  saying  good-by  to 
her.  "Oh!  Only  for  a  moment.  I  would  ask  her 
pardon.  I  would  tell  her  that  I  am  all  changed!" 
He  made  a  great  effort  not  to  listen  to  these  voices 
which  troubled  him,  and  he  strove  to  think,  as  he 
walked  along,  of  his  oxen,  and  of  each  of  the  ob- 
jects which  he  had  brought  from  Nievre  and 
which  he  must  soon  pack  up.  The  dark  walls  rose 
before  him;  the  gables  of  the  stables,  the  sheep- 
folds,  the  house,  the  barn,  already  detached 
themselves  vaguely  the  one  from  the  other  in 
the  night  which  had  grown  milky  and  chill.  And 
he  still  felt,  in  the  depths  of  his  heart,  the  growing 
of  this  voluptuous  desire  of  which  he  had  emptied 
his  soul  but  which  sprang  up  again. 

At  this  hour  the  servants  would  have  finished 
supper.  Some  of  them  were,  doubtless,  smoking 
or  chatting  before  the  great  gate.  Gilbert  did  not 
go  as  far  as  that.  Cutting  across  the  fields  he 
turned  toward  a  small  gate,  opening  into  the  en- 
closure of  Pain-Fendu,  on  the  side  of  Onnaing. 
Luckily  it  was  not  locked.  He  had  only  to  lift  up 
the  wooden  panel,  using  a  stone  as  a  lever,  and  the 
gate  turned  on  its  hinges.  The  orchard  was  de- 
serted and  so  was  the  long  passage  which  bordered 
the  warehouses,  the  forge,  and  the  first  cow- 
sheds. Gilbert  on  reaching  the  back  of  the  court 
saw  only  a  single  man  by  the  bed  of  manure  where 


306    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

the  Picardy  cattle  were  sleeping;  a  day-labourer, 
who  did  not  recognize  the  silhouette  of  the  Niver- 
nais,  and  who  kept  on  putting  the  beet  pulp  into 
the  feeding  troughs.  He  hid  himself  for  a  mo- 
ment behind  the  corner  post  of  the  shed.  Heil- 
man's  voice  could  be  heard  in  the  dining-room 
and  then  in  the  corridor.  The  foreman  appeared 
upon  the  threshold.  Gilbert  saw  him  shake  the 
hand  of  a  servant  who,  having  finished  his  supper, 
was  going  back  to  the  village.  He  went  forward 
rapidly,  crossed  the  court  and  mounted  the  steps 
of  the  stairway. 

''Monsieur  Heilman?" 

The  latter  had  opened  the  door  of  the  dining- 
room,  but  he  bent  back,  turning  his  head  in  the 
direction  of  the  passage  from  whence  the  voice 
came.  His  eyes,  already  reaccustomed  to  the 
light  of  the  lamp,  made  an  effort  to  adapt  them- 
selves to  the  shadow. 

"Ah!  It  is  you,  Cloquet?    Enter!" 

Gilbert  felt  weak.  He  went  up  the  steps;  he 
entered,  and  at  first  looked  around  him.  Madame 
Heilman  was  not  in  the  dining-room  where  she 
had,  as  usual,  just  put  everything  in  order.  The 
bright  lamp  was  upon  the  table,  the  chairs  were 
ranged  along  the  wall  and  the  coffee  pot  stood 
near  the  extinguished  fire,  read}''  for  the  next 
morning's  coffee.  Heilman  remained  standing, 
leaning  against  the  high  end  of  the  table,  and 
facing  the  door.  He  looked  disdainfully  and  dis- 
trustfully at  this  stray  drover  who  came  back, 
no  doubt,  to  ask  for  work  after  his  spree.  He 
had  seen  many  of  them  before,  these  adventur- 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    307 

ers,  crossing  frontiers,  coming  from  the  West  or  the 
East,  drunkards  or  debauchees,  wanderers  in  any 
case.  He  had  seen  too  many  to  get  angry  with 
them.  He  waited  several  moments,  surprised  that 
Gilbert  did  not  excuse  himself. 

"You  have  given  a  fine  example!"  he  said. 
"A  four  days'  spree  and  I  took  you  for  a  steady 
workman!  My  wife,  indeed,  said  to  me:  'He  will 
do  something  rash!'  She  could  not  understand 
it,  on  Saturday  evening,  when  you  went  away. 
But  you  are  like  the  others,  without  interest  in 
your  work.  Where  have  you  been?" 

Gilbert  made  a  vague  gesture : 

"I have  seen  a  great  deal  of  the  country,"  he  said. 

"And  now  you  would  like  to  come  back?  I 
understand  that;  but  I  must  warn  you.  I  have 
replaced  you,  I  have  hired  a  young  man  who  was 
passing,  some  one  probably  who  is  no  better  than 
you.  The  kind  one  picks  up  in  these  days." 

"No,  I  do  not  ask  to  be  taken  back;  I  am  go- 
ing home." 

"Ah!  That's  good!  I  will  pay  you,  then. 
Monsieur  Walmery  will  reimburse  me." 

The  foreman  opened  one  of  the  cupboards  and 
came  back  with  his  hand  plunged  in  a  linen  bag  of 
which  he  had  untied  the  string.  He  clicked  upon 
the  table,  one  by  one,  the  pieces  of  gold — "one 
hundred  francs,  hundred  and  twenty,  hundred  and 
forty,  that  makes  up  the  sum  and  generously?" 

"Yes." 

"Now,  my  man,  I  have  a  letter  for  you.  It 
came  at  noon." 

He  opened  the  table  drawer  and  drew  out  the 


308    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

letter.  Gilbert  recognized  the  post  mark  of  Fon- 
teneilles.  He  left  the  pieces  of  gold  upon  the 
table,  took  the  letter,  and  tore  open  the  envelope. 
He  had  not  read  two  lines,  when  his  eyes  filled 
with  tears. 

"Ah!  Mon  Dieu!"  he  said,  "Monsieur  Michel 
is  dead!" 

He  stopped  reading.  His  arms  fell  at  his  sides. 
The  tears  rolled  down  his  cheeks  and  his  beard 
and  he  did  not  dry  them,  and  he  did  not  hide  his 
face. 

"He  died  on  Sunday.  It  is  Etienne  Justa- 
mond  who  sends  me  word.  My  friend  is  dead!" 

Heilman,  although  little  sensitive  to  the  sor- 
rows of  others,  was  touched  by  this  grief. 

"Who  was  he,  then?    One  of  your  relations?" 

"No." 

"He  was  not  your  master?" 

"I  have  none.  He  was  a  noble,  Monsieur 
Heilman.  I  had  mowed  for  his  father,  and  then 
for  him.  He  loved  us,  he  talked  with  me;  he 
would  have  changed  the  country." 

He  counted  upon  his  fingers: 

"Five  hours  from  here  to  Paris,  then  six  or 
seven.  I  shall  arrive,  perhaps,  too  late  for  the 
funeral." 

Heilman  shook  his  head  to  give  more  impor- 
tance to  his  reply.  He  admired  in  the  bottom  of 
his  heart  this  passer-by,  and  he  regretted  him. 

"You  are  a  curious  man,  Gilbert.  You  are  the 
first  one  whom  I  ever  heard  speak  in  this  way. 
Listen,  there  might,  perhaps,  be  a  way  to  arrange." 

"What?    Is  there  a  train  at  once?" 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    309 

"I  know  nothing  about  that,  and  that  is  not 
what  I  want  to  say.  No,  Cloquet,  but  I  might 
be  able  to  keep  you." 

Gilbert  raised  his  arms  as  if  he  were  coming  out 
of  a  dream. 

"No!  No!  You  must  not  propose  that  to  me. 
I  might  accept  it.  Let  me  go." 

He  approached,  swept  up  the  gold  with  his  two 
hands,  and  thrust  it  in  his  pocket.  At  this  mo- 
ment, the  door  which  led  from  the  dining-room  into 
the  room  of  Heilman  opened.  A  woman  appeared 
in  the  half  opening,  her  head  partly  turned 
toward  some  one  following  her  who  was  speaking 
to  her. 

"Gilbert!"  caUed  Heilman.  "Gilbert!  At 
least  come  and  say  good-by  to  your  mistress?" 

But  Gilbert  had  disappeared.  He  fled.  He  was 
already  in  the  court.  He  reached  the  shed  and 
disappeared  in  the  darkness.  Heilman  would 
have  followed  him  and  called  him  back  but  his  wife 
stopped  him.  She  had  the  wise  speech  to  which 
men  yield. 

"Let  him  go,"  she  said.  "You  do  not  know 
him  well;  he  is  a  man  who  has  had  many  griefs." 

Gilbert  had  entered  the  cow-shed.  In  an  in- 
stant he  had  folded  the  clothes  which  he  had  left 
in  the  corner  of  the  loft.  He  fastened  the  pack- 
age with  a  leather  belt,  and  threw  it  on  his  back. 
Then  he  took  his  stick.  Passing  behind  his  six 
great  oxen,  who  were  eating  at  the  rack,  he  slack- 
ened his  step. 

"Adieu,  my  oxen!  Work  well  with  the  other 
man.  I  am  going  back  home." 


310    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

One  of  the  oxen  gave  a  short  bellow. 

"He  answers  me,"  said  the  drover. 

He  had  recognized  Griveau,  who  had  a  deep 
voice,  and  short  breath.  And  he  continued  his 
way  swiftly,  recrossing  the  orchard  to  the  little 
open  gate  in  the  wall  of  the  enclosure. 

He  was  soon  upon  the  drenched  fallow  lands 
and  then  upon  the  road  which  leads  to  Onnaing. 
The  fields  were  level  and  bare.  The  village  slept. 
There  were  still  some  trails  of  smoke,  blacker  than 
the  shadow  and  beaten  down  by  the  east  wind. 
The  man  no  longer  thought  of  the  farm  which  he 
was  leaving.  All  his  imagination  and  all  his  heart 
were  in  Nievre.  He  groaned,  he  repeated: 

"Monsieur  Michel  I  shall  never  see  again!  My 
friend  is  dead!"  When  he  reached  the  station, 
he  asked: 

"I  wish  to  go  to  Fonteneilles,  which  is  in 
Nievre.  Will  I  be  there  to-morrow  morning?" 

"Train  2916  passes  in  a  few  moments.  Get 
your  ticket  for  Paris.  At  Paris,  they  will  tell 
you,  if  they  know  where  your  place  is." 

Gilbert  got  into  a  compartment  where  there 
was  only  one  other  traveller.  He  stretched  him- 
self out  on  the  seat,  his  bundle  of  clothes  under  his 
head,  and  he  closed  his  eyes,  but  sleep  did  not 
come  to  him.  Gilbert  continued  to  think  of  the 
next  day,  and  the  work  and  the  trouble  of  the 
days  to  come.  And  at  last  he  said: 

"I  shall  live  my  new  life  as  if  Monsieur  Michel 
saw  me." 


XV. 


THE  PASSING  OF  THE  MASTER. 

MICHEL  DE  MEXIMIEU  died,  almost  suddenly,  on 
Sunday  night.  The  news  ran  over  the  country 
faster  than  a  galloping  horse.  "Monsieur  de  Fon- 
teneilles  is  dead.  The  old  one?  No,  the  young. 
It  is  a  pity;  he  was  the  better  of  the  two;  he 
was  not  proud."  Monday  and  Tuesday,  at  the 
angelus,  morning  and  evening,  the  bells  of  Fon- 
teneilles  rang  for  a  long  time  to  announce  the 
death.  All  the  forest  trees,  all  the  underbrush, 
all  the  thickets  on  the  hills  shivered  at  the  pas- 
sage of  their  voice,  and  a  few  souls  who  had  loved 
Michel  de  Meximieu  shivered  also.  For  twenty- 
four  hours  the  chateau  remained  entirely  closed, 
empty  and  dumb.  Then  they  began  to  transform 
the  vestibule  into  a  chapel  for  the  dead  to  lie  in 
state.  An  unwonted  animation  broke  the  silence 
of  the  avenue,  of  the  court,  and  of  the  neighbour- 
ing barns.  At  the  summons  of  the  Marquis,  who 
arrived  Monday  evening,  the  workmen  of  the 
country  and  the  employees  of  Corbigny  flocked 
there.  The  noise  of  saws  and  hammers  rose  round 
the  walls.  Curiosity,  a  little  human  pity,  and  a 
little  regret  were  roused  at  the  same  time.  The 
carriages  from  neighbouring  chateaux  came  down 
the  avenue;  peasants  came,  only  a  few  at  first, 

311 


312    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

and  then  more,  emboldened  by  numbers,  "to  give 
the  holy  water":  others,  who  did  not  enter,  un- 
covered themselves  before  the  door  and  wandered 
around  for  a  moment  in  the  grounds  which  death 
had  opened  to  all. 

They  met  the  Marquis  here  and  there.  He 
superintended  every  detail;  gave  orders,  and 
ruled  at  Fonteneilles  for  the  first  time;  greeted 
from  a  distance,  respected,  obeyed  at  his  slight- 
est word.  His  grief  had  reestablished  him  in 
authority  and  almost  in  friendship.  He  said: 
"Madame  de  Meximieu  was  unable  to  come;  she 
is  crushed;  pity  her."  Sorrow  inspired  him  with 
phrases  not  in  his  usual  manner,  which  the  hearts 
of  all  men  understood.  They  thought:  "How  he 
suffers,  to  be  gentle  like  that!"  The  names  of 
the  farmers,  the  farm  servants,  of  the  shepherds, 
at  least  of  the  oldest,  he  remembered  as  well  as 
those  of  his  own  cavalrymen.  "Mehaut,  my 
friend,  go  and  open  the  family  vault;  do  what- 
ever is  necessary;  I  do  not  want  strange  hands  to 
touch  the  resting  place  of  our  dead.  He  would 
not  have  allowed  it.  Go,  my  friend,  I  know  that 
all  will  be  well  done."  Again  he  said:  "Monsieur 
PAbbe,  I  shall  be  grateful  to  you  all  my  life  for 
having  been  with  him  at  his  last  hour.  You  took 
my  place,  without  doubt,  better  than  I  could 
have  done ;  you  understood  him  better.  We  were 
so  different,  he  and  I!  Education,  occupations, 
ideals  even.  Ah!  Monsieur  PAbbe,  I  suffer  for 
not  having  known  my  son.  I  have  suffered  for  a 
long  time  on  account  of  these  differences,  but  I 
did  not  fathom  them  until  after  his  death.  It  is 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    313 

he  who  was  right.  And  now  we  are  separated 
forever — after  having  been  strangers  to  each 
other  all  our  lives." 

Wednesday  at  dawn,  Renard  and  the  sacristan, 
the  cart-wright  and  the  farrier  of  Fonteneilles 
finished  nailing  in  the  interior  of  the  church  and 
before  the  door  which  opens  upon  the  cemetery 
the  long  black  draperies,  sewed  with  those  tears 
which  are  the  image  of  so  many  others  and  which 
do  not  fall.  The  parish  had  only  old,  very  short 
hangings;  they  had  sent  to  Corbigny  to  get  all 
the  funeral  material  of  the  best  quality.  The 
men  made  haste,  aided  by  the  village  workmen. 
They  opened  cases  of  tapers;  they  erected,  at  the 
entrance  of  the  truncated  nave,  a  catafalque 
higher  than  the  people  of  the  hamlet  had  ever 
seen,  "so  splendid,  with  feathers  at  the  corners." 
The  merchants'  wagons  which  went  up  the  slope 
on  a  walk,  stopped;  children,  old  women,  and 
young  mothers  with  their  little  ones  by  the  hand, 
stood  around  the  wall  of  the  cemetery,  chatter- 
ing, and  at  times  drew  near  the  door,  to  look  in. 
An  odour  of  stuff,  such  as  floats  from  draper's 
shops,  of  wax  and  of  mustiness,  filled  the  old 
church  and  made  the  air  heavy. 

The  hour  had  come.  In  the  great  sandy  court 
before  the  chateau,  a  large  crowd  assembled.  It 
made  two  moving  masses:  one  to  the  right,  at 
the  entrance  of  the  avenue,  the  other,  the  largest, 
on  the  side  of  the  common.  They  were  the  men 
from  Fonteneilles,  from  the  neighbouring  hamlets, 
from  Corbigny  and  elsewhere,  workmen,  day- 


314    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

labourers,  artisans,  small  landed  proprietors, 
merchants  and  among  them  there  was  a  sprink- 
ling of  women,  veiled  in  mourning,  or  dressed  in 
the  canette  of  their  grandmothers.  They  talked 
in  a  low  tone.  The  confused  noise  of  voices  grew 
loud  by  starts  and  then  again  died  away  almost 
entirely.  In  the  space  left  the  carriages  moved  at 
a  walk;  they  stopped  before  the  chateau,  and 
then  ranged  themselves  in  line  in  front  of  the 
stables  half  hidden  by  a  clump  of  trees.  They 
were  of  all  fashions  and  of  all  epochs,  automobiles 
or  landaus  bringing  relations  or  friends  of  the 
Meximieus,  the  cab  of  the  notary,  the  tilbury  of 
a  business  man,  jaunting  cars  or  English  carts  of 
the  large  farmers  of  the  region,  hacks  hired  by 
the  travellers  at  some  near-by  station.  ' '  That  is  a 
carriage  from  Touchevier  of  Saint-Saulge ;  that 
one  from  the  hotel  de  la  Poste,  that  one  from 
Monsieur  Cahouet  of  Corbigny.  Ah!  there  is 
Monsieur  Honore*  Fortier."  The  farmer  of  La 
Vigie  came  on  foot,  wearing  a  silk  hat,  very  alert 
still  and  ruddy  in  spite  of  his  age,  scarcely  open- 
ing his  thin  lips  to  reply  to  the  greetings  mur- 
mured on  all  sides,  those  lips  closed  since  child- 
hood by  the  secretiveness  of  the  peasant.  "Do 
you  know  that  fat  man  who  is  passing?  He  is  the 
wood  merchant  of  Saint-Imbert.  Have  you  seen 
Monsieur  Jacquemin?  No,  nor  Mademoiselle 
Antoinette."  Their  eyes  followed  the  carriages; 
people  pushed  each  other  forward  to  see  better, 
trying  to  distinguish  the  faces  behind  the  raised 
panes  of  the  coach  doors,  to  surprise  words, 
gestures,  the  faces  of  the  newcomers  who  en- 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    315 

tered  the  chateau  through  the  door  hung  with 
black,  behind  which  vague  shadows  moved.  The 
crowd  increased  continually.  Few  peasants  went 
down  the  avenue.  They  came  in  small  groups, 
from  the  woods  and  the  fields,  along  the  fences 
made  of  tree  branches  and  the  paths,  avoiding  the 
open  spaces  where  they  would  be  exposed  to  the 
fire  of  so  many  eyes.  The  court  was  as  crowded 
as  the  square  on  a  market  day.  At  nine  o'clock 
there  arose  a  great  commotion.  All  heads  turned 
in  the  same  direction.  Abbe  Roubiaux,  preceded 
by  the  " cross  of  gold"  draped  with  crepe  and 
with  a  group  of  choristers,  was  seen  at  the  top 
of  the  avenue.  Behind  him  came  the  hearse  from 
Corbigny.  It  was  the  second  time  that  "the  town 
hearse"  had  come  into  the  country  of  Fonte- 
neilles.  The  first  time  it  came  to  bear  away  the 
body  of  a  stout  lady,  who  had  begun  life  by  being 
a  nurse  in  Paris,  and  who  had  returned  to  her 
native  place  to  die,  having  become  very  rich,  no 
one  knew  how.  But  it  was  not  the  same  carriage ; 
there  were  not  the  two  caparisoned,  plumed 
horses,  or  the  carriage  covered  with  black  and 
trimmed  with  silver;  no,  it  was  quite  a  different 
thing. 

"What  a  poor  hearse!" 

"For  a  Count,  too!" 

"It  would  be  good  enough  for  people  like  us, 
common  people,  as  they  call  us." 

"Only  one  horse!" 

"And  not  a  fine  one.  You  can  count  his  ribs. 
His  tail  is  not  even  combed  out." 

"Do  you  understand  why?" 


I 

I 


316    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

"No.  Perhaps  the  Mayor  of  Corbigny  was  not 
willing  to  let  the  big  hearse  go  out." 

"Politics,  then?" 

"Who  can  tell?  A  noble,  with  only  one  horse 
for  his  funeral,  that  is  something  I  never  saw 
before.  There  is  enough  money  in  that  house, 
too!  More  than  thirty  thousand  francs,  that  the 
Marquis  got  from  the  sale  of  his  woods!" 

"You  are  all  wrong!  Renard,  the  guard,  has 
just  told  me  the  reason!" 

Thirty  persons  gathered  around  the  man  who 
knew. 

"Well?" 

"It  appears  that  the  Count  made  a  will.  He 
asked  for  the  first  class  at  the  church,  and  the 
fourth  to  carry  him  there." 

"He  wanted  the  priests  to  make  the  most." 

"Do  you  know  what  astonishes  me?  It  is  that 
he  did  not  ask  to  be  carried  by  the  men  of  his 
farm." 

"Perhaps  he  did  not  wish  to  tire  them.  He 
was  capable  of  thinking  of  that." 

"Perhaps." 

Abbe"  Roubiaux  recited  the  prayers  and  the  words 
floated  above  the  assembly  and  by  their  power  of 
discipline  silenced  the  noise.  Heads  were  uncov- 
ered. Suddenly  there  came  an  absolute,  touching 
silence,  the  result  of  poignant  emotion.  The  car- 
riage took  up  its  march,  and  in  the  framework  of 
the  doorway,  through  which  his  son,  lying  in  his 
bier,  had  just  passed,  the  father  appeared,  mag- 
nificent and  sorrowful,  grown  white  in  four  days, 
his  face  uplifted,  the  glance  of  his  blue  eyes  fixed 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    317 

before  him  upon  the  wreaths  of  chrysanthemums 
and  autumn  roses  laid  on  the  top  of  the  funeral 
car,  his  frock  coat  closely  buttoned — on  it,  above 
his  heart,  a  red  point  shone  clearly — his  silk  hat 
held  in  his  ungloved  right  hand,  his  left  hand 
gloved,  hanging  motionless.  Everybody  looked 
at  him.  He  saw  no  one.  He  walked  with  a  mili- 
tary bearing  and  seemed  like  one  advancing  to  the 
sound  of  a  fanfare  which  chants  the  mourning  of 
the  entire  world.  His  reputation  for  courage  and 
wealth,  his  rank  and  his  years  gave  him  im- 
portance; and  grief  added  its  consecration. 
Many  men  felt  tears  springing  to  their  eyes,  and 
the  worst  enemies  of  the  chateau  found  this 
nobleman  very  brave  and  very  worthy  of  pity. 
He  walked  slowly,  dominating  the  crowd,  his 
white  beard  and  his  moustaches  alone  trembling 
in  the  wind. 

All  the  friends,  the  neighbours,  the  clients,  and 
the  whole  country  follow.  At  the  end  of  the 
avenue  of  beech  trees,  the  small,  sorry-looking 
horse  which  dragged  the  hearse  turned  to  the  left, 
and  the  body  of  Michel,  late  Comte  de  Meximieu, 
left  forever  his  beloved  land  of  Fonteneilles. 

At  that  point  a  man  joined  the  procession.  It 
was  Monsieur  Jacquemin.  He  did  not  wish  to 
enter  before  the  time  into  the  domain  which  was 
now  his.  The  bells  tolled.  The  forest  trees  in  the 
background  grew  smaller.  And  before  the  first 
houses  of  the  hamlet,  upon  the  square,  hi  the 
cemetery,  and  on  the  terrace  which  surrounds  the 
tower  of  the  church,  many  women  and  men  also 
waited  for  the  passage  of  the  long  procession. 


318    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

When  the  nave,  the  two  arms  of  the  transept, 
and  the  choir,  were  crowded  with  people,  the 
walls  on  every  side  rubbed  by  the  people's  shoul- 
ders, the  service  began.  The  flames  of  the  wax 
tapers  did  not  dissipate  the  shadows  gathered  by  the 
hangings.  They  shone  like  sparks  arrested  in  their 
flight  and  nailed  on  the  darkness.  The  officiating 
priest  stood  near  the  communion  table.  In  the 
central  aisle,  between  the  benches,  a  new  proces- 
sion was  formed,  that  of  the  men  and  women 
who  had  known  the  dead  man,  and  who,  to 
honour  him,  were  going  "to  the  offertory."  Abbe* 
Roubiaux  looked  at  these  parishioners  whom 
death  and  not  God  had  brought  to  the  church. 
"She  is  their  mistress,"  he  thought,  "she  raises 
the  cross  again  above  them."  They  came  in  two 
ranks;  they  kissed  the  silver  crucifix;  lips  differ- 
ing greatly  in  respect  and  love,  sluggish,  disdain- 
ful and  unaccustomed  lips ;  lips  which,  at  all  times, 
blasphemed,  but  did  not  dare  at  this  moment  to 
refuse  the  traditional  gesture;  lips  of  old  women 
who  pressed  the  metal  at  the  pierced  feet  of 
Christ,  and  seemed  to  wish  to  devour  it.  And  all, 
both  the  men  and  women  of  Fonteneilles,  after 
kissing  the  crucifix,  placed  one  sou  or  two  sous 
in  the  tray  which  a  chorister  standing  near  the 
officiating  priest  held  out  to  them.  The  rich  and 
the  poor  filed  past.  The  poor  had  taken  the 
money  for  the  offering  not  from  their  pocket,  but 
from  another  tray,  upon  which  was  heaped  a  mass 
of  copper  coins,  which  the  guard  of  Fonteneilles, 
watching  carefully  the  people  who  took,  held  by 
the  side  of  the  holy  water  font.  All  the  parish 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    319 

had  known  Michel,  and  nearly  all  gave  for  the 
repose  of  his  soul,  because  their  ancestors  had  be- 
lieved, had  loved  and  had  hoped  fraternally. 

Another  priest  of  the  district  had  replaced 
Abbe  Roubiaux  at  the  offertory,  and  the  proces- 
sion went  on,  and  the  dry  sound  of  the  sous 
dropping  upon  the  platter,  sometimes  the  sound 
of  a  kiss,  were  mingled  with  the  chants  for  the 
dead,  the  appeals  for  mercy,  and  the  promises  of 
resurrection  and  eternity. 

The  General,  standing  in  the  first  row  to  the 
left,  moved  only  an  arm,  which  he  raised  now  and 
then  to  the  height  of  his  eyes. 

And  when  the  mass  was  finished  and  the  abso- 
lution given,  the  father  went  out,  recrossing  the 
nave.  He  took  his  place  on  the  top  step  of  the 
church  portal,  his  back  to  the  flight  of  steps,  in 
the  full  light,  replying  with  a  sign  of  his  head  to 
all  the  congregation  who  passed  near  him.  He 
did  not  hear  the  words  which  they  addressed  to 
him:  "General,  I  pity  you;  General,  I  shall  not 
forget  him."  He  waited.  He  looked  repeatedly 
at  the  coffin  placed  there  before  him,  upon  the 
edge  of  the  path  which  crossed  the  cemetery  to 
the  most  frequented  and  the  most  honourable 
place  near  a  large  raised  slab  of  marble,  marked 
with  a  cross  and  bearing  the  inscription:  "N'a 
failli  Meximieu."  Six  workmen  of  Fonteneilles 
had  borne  the  body  to  the  threshold  of  this  dwell- 
ing, which  it  was  to  enter,  the  last  but  one  of  his 
name  and  last  hope  of  his  race.  The  six  men  were 
fine  looking  and  thoughtful,  affected  by  the  place 
and  by  the  apparatus  of  the  things  of  death,  and 


320    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

by  the  glance  of  the  General,  which  they  imag- 
ined to  be  resting  upon  them.  Again  chants  were 
raised;  a  benediction  descended  upon  the  coffin. 
The  cemetery  was  crowded;  there  were  men, 
children,  and  women  between  all  the  tombs  and 
even  upon  the  wall  of  the  enclosure.  And  the 
gray  sunlight  appeared  and  disappeared,  covered 
by  the  passing  mists. 

Then,  when  the  priest  had  finished  the  prayers 
and  reentered  the  church,  from  the  top  of  the 
steps  the  father  extended  his  arm.  A  second 
time  silence  fell  upon  the  vast  crowd.  "People  of 
Fonteneilles,"  said  he,  "my  family  is  ended;  my 
son  is  dead;  me,  you  will  see  no  more!  During 
four  hundred  years,  the  Meximieus  have  lived  with 
your  fathers.  I  constitute  you  the  guardians  of 
the  tomb  of  this  child,  and  of  my  ancestors  who 
sleep  here.  When  you  pass,  let  those  who  still 
know  how  to  pray,  pray  for  my  son.  He  loved 
you.  You  did  not  understand  him,  not  entirely. 
I  have  no  right  to  reproach  you,  for  no  more 
did  I,  until  recently,  know  what  he  was  wrorth. 
He  was  better  than  we  are.  You  will  learn  from 
your  priest  that  he  died  thinking  of  you.  I  have 
not  the  strength  to  speak  of  these  things.  I  say 
to  you  only,  he  was  a  brave  man;  do  not  forget  it. 
Try  also  to  be  more  just  toward  those  who  will 
take  his  place  upon  the  land  of  Fonteneilles.  I  leave 
you.  But  I  beg  the  poor  to  allow  me  to  give  them 
myself  these  tickets  for  the  distribution  of  bread. 
Come  my  friends!  And  to  all  the  others,  adieu!"" 
Murmured  words  replied,  here  and  there : 
"Has  he  made  a  donation  to  the  board  of 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    321 

charity?  Or  could  it  be  a  hospital  which  he  had 
given  for  Fonteneilles?  But  no,  he  had  not  even 
his  lawful  portion,  Monsieur  Michel.  He  lived  on 
the  property  of  his  parents." 

The  guard  came  up  with  a  package  of  bread 
tickets,  each  one  for  twelve  pounds  on  the  baker 
of  the  hamlet.  The  Marquis  went  down  to  the 
last  step,  that  which  touched  the  ground,  uneven 
and  hollowed  here  into  a  shell  by  the  feet  of  the 
faithful  of  all  ages.  The  poor  came,  arranging 
themselves  in  a  procession,  the  lame,  the  knock- 
kneed,  the  humpbacked,  the  old  of  the  village  or 
of  the  neighbouring  villages,  rovers  of  the  forest, 
old  women  in  black  mantles  like  nuns,  mothers 
who  dragged  a  group  of  children  after  them. 
And  to  each  one  the  old  Marquis  gave  twenty- 
four  pounds  of  bread.  "In  memory  of  Michel 
de  Meximieu!"  he  said.  The  procession  was  long; 
the  Marquis,  firm  as  he  was,  closed  at  times  his 
eyes  to  keep  himself  from  weeping;  the  people 
said  to  each  other:  "It  is  true  that  he  was  a  good 
man,  Monsieur  Michel;  we  would  perhaps  have 
understood  each  other  in  the  end."  Again  they 
said:  "They  are  going  to  sell  Fonteneilles  now. 
The  Marquis  has  no  longer  the  courage  to  return, 
and  he  is  selling  his  land.  For  he  has  no  need  of 
money,  he  is  worth  millions." 

"In  memory  of  Michel  de  Meximieu,"  repeated 
the  Marquis  upon  the  lowest  step  of  the  church. 

Near  the  tomb  a  young  girl,  kneeling  in  the 
grass,  bowed  and  overwhelmed  by  her  grief  and 
indifferent  to  all  the  rest,  was  weeping.  They  had 
not  seen  her  come.  She  was  there.  The  women 


322    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

especially  were  moved  with  pity  and  said:  "It 
must  be  that  she  loved  him,  the  poor  little  one! 
What  a  fine  couple  they  would  have  made,  and 
kind  to  the  poor!" 

There  were  still  left  to  be  served  a  dozen  poor, 
who  made  a  file  of  some  yards  long  to  the  right  of 
the  Marquis,  when  a  man,  arriving  by  the  road 
and  pushing  through  the  groups  which  were  be- 
ginning to  go  down,  came  up  the  steps  of  the 
cemetery.  As  he  was  a  tall  man,  the  whole 
assembly  saw  him.  A  great  murmur  arose: 
"Gilbert  Cloquet,  back  from  the  Picards!  Look 
at  him !  His  beard  has  grown  white,  but  he  looks 
well  all  the  same!  Where  is  he  going?  He  is 
passing  between  the  tombs.  Perhaps  he  wants  to 
speak  to  the  Marquis?" 

He  did  want,  in  fact,  to  speak  to  Monsieur  de 
Meximieu,  and,  thinking  it  scarcely  polite  to 
address  him  in  front  and  to  disturb  the  distribu- 
tion, he  gained  the  part  of  the  enclosure  where 
the  procession  of  the  collectors  of  bread  which 
was  now  finishing  had  formed.  He  took  his  place 
in  the  last  rank,  behind  a  woman  who  was  drag- 
ging a  child,  and  he  waited  his  turn,  treading  like 
her  upon  the  grass.  People  noticed  him.  He,  his 
head  erect,  and  his  beard  motionless  upon  his 
closely  buttoned  jacket,  had  only  eyes  for  this 
grand  old  noble,  who  stooped  rhythmically  and 
who  said  so  sadly:  "In  memory  of  Michel  de 
Meximieu."  They  were  soon  face  to  face.  The 
master  of  Fonteneilles,  whose  sight  was  blurred 
by  his  tears,  did  not  recognize  the  reaper  of  his 
meadows,  and  extended  to  him  a  slip  of  paper 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    323 

upon  which  were  two  written  lines.  But  Gilbert 
said,  very  low,  so  as  not  to  offend  him : 

"I  am  not  yet  in  need,  Monsieur  Philippe;  I 
only  wanted  to  speak  two  words  to  you." 

"Ah!  It  is  you,  my  poor  Cloquet !  Come  up  to  my 
side  to  tell  me  the  two  things;  I  hear  you  badly." 

When  the  two  men  were  standing  upon  the 
same  step  of  the  flight,  all  the  crowd  thought: 
"He  is  as  tall  as  the  Marquis,  and  even  a  little 
more  so  to-day,  because  the  Marquis  bears  too 
much  sorrow." 

"I  want  to  tell  you  that  I  loved  Monsieur 
Michel  well,  that  I  shall  always  keep  him  in  my 
thoughts.  I  have  come  from  farther  than  Paris 
to  do  him  honour." 

General  de  Meximieu  grasped  the  hands  of 
Cloquet,  and  pressed  them. 

Cloquet  continued: 

"You  are  going  away,  Monsieur  Philippe.  Do 
not  be  troubled  about  the  flowers.  I  remain,  and 
I  will  watch  over  him.  During  my  life,  I  will  put 
flowers  on  his  grave." 

A  sob  answered  him,  then  the  words: 

"I  trust  you  to  do  it." 

And  Gilbert  Cloquet  withdrew  and  disap- 
peared in  the  crowd.  Then  General  de  Meximieu 
descended  the  steps  and  went  down  the  narrow 
path  on  whose  edge  were  the  coffin,  the  wreaths, 
and  the  grave-digger  stupefied  with  wine  and 
who  seemed  sad.  Suddenly  a  silence  of  pity  fell 
upon  the  cemetery,  the  road,  and  the  square. 
Even  those  who  could  see  nothing  were  silent. 
Antoinette  Jacquemin  was  no  longer  there.  The 


324    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

General  stopped,  inclined  his  head  and  made  the 
sign  of  the  cross;  then,  instinctively,  by  force  of 
habit,  or  perhaps  for  some  secret  reason,  at  the 
moment  of  turning  away  he  again  carried  his 
hand  to  his  forehead  and  gave  a  military  salute. 
Straightening  himself  to  his  full  height,  he  went 
on  his  way. 

He  walked  very  swiftly.  He  fled.  People 
separated  before  him. 

He  crossed  the  square,  replying  to  the  greetings 
with  a  feverish  hand  which  touched  the  brim  of 
his  hat.  Two  notaries  followed  him,  some  guards, 
and  some  wood  or  land  merchants,  but  he  held  up 
his  head  and  spoke  to  no  one.  The  path  went 
down.  The  avenue  opened  before  him.  The 
Marquis,  without  halting,  raised  his  eyes  toward 
the  edge  of  the  forest  which  surrounded  the  walls 
in  a  fair  half  circle.  The  anguish  which  seized  his 
heart  was  like  that  which  he  had  felt  upon  the 
battle-fields  in  1870.  A  whole  race  had  been 
mowed  down;  four  hundred  years  of  memories 
and  of  friendships  were  about  to  be  blotted  out, 
and  the  last  of  those  estates  which  had  stood  as 
gems  in  the  crown  of  the  Marquis  de  Meximieu, 
he,  he  had  sold  it.  The  windows  were  closed; 
they  would  remain  thus  until  the  new  master 
opened  them  on  the  new  era.  The  shadow  alone 
belonged  still  to  the  old  master,  his  sign,  his 
mark,  the  mourning  over  everything.  He  entered, 
making  a  sign  to  the  importunate  to  wait.  In  the 
vestibule  was  a  package  of  letters,  cards,  and  dis- 
patches. Among  them  was  an  official  telegram 
brought  within  an  hour.  The  General  opened  it 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    325 

and  made  a  gesture  of  anger.  "In  truth,  they 
might  have  gotten  along  without  me !  Have  they 
never  suffered,  those  people!"  It  was  an  impera- 
tive recall  to  Paris,  on  account  of  a  strike  which 
had  just  broken  out.  The  Minister  ordered: 
"Take  the  first  train,  I  need  you."  The  Marquis 
de  Meximieu  was  alone  in  the  vestibule  of  the 
chateau.  He  tore  the  paper  and  crumpled  up  the 
pieces,  which  he  threw  on  the  tiled  floor.  "So 
much  the  worse !  I  shall  not  go !"  He  had  prom- 
ised himself  to  go  through  for  the  last  time  the 
bedrooms,  the  drawing-rooms,  and  the  cluttered 
attics  of  Fonteneilles;  to  receive  the  farmers; 
and  to  point  out  to  Renard  the  objects  that  must 
be  sent  at  once  to  Paris.  There  were  sacred  sou- 
venirs. Madame  de  Meximieu  had  -made  him 
promise  to  bring  back  several  himself.  "This, 
and  again  this  which  you  will  find  in  his  room,  or 
in  the  smoking-room."  He  would  do  it.  And,  in 
fact,  he  called  the  guard  and  walked  toward  the 
stairway.  But,  at  the  moment  of  going  up  the 
first  step,  he  halted;  he  passed  his  hand  over  his 
forehead  as  if  to  put  aside  a  feeling  of  faintness. 

"No,"  he  said,  "my  duty  as  a  soldier  is  at 
Paris.  I  must  go!" 

He  reappeared  outside,  leaving  the  door  open, 
and  said  to  Renard  who  was  hurrying  toward  him. 

"Bring  the  auto." 

When  the  machine  was  in  front  of  the  door : 

"Gentlemen,"  he  said  to  the  group  of  men  who 
were  waiting  for  him,  "I  will  forward  to  you  my 
instructions  from  Paris.  I  am  compelled  to  leave. 
A  matter  of  duty.  Adieu ! ' ' 


326    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

And,  throwing  himself  into  the  carriage,  with- 
out looking  back,  he  said  to  the  chauffeur: 

"  Sixty  kilometres  an  hour,  Edward,  we  will 
catch  the  express  for  Paris  at  La  Charite." 

At  the  moment  when  the  automobile  turned  the 
corner  of  the  avenue  and  launched  itself  at  full 
speed  upon  the  road  to  Lache,  the  sound  of  its  horn 
passed  over  the  woods  and  over  the  village  of 
Fonteneilles.  It  was  the  last  adieu  of  a  race.  The 
women  had  gone  back  to  their  houses.  Many 
men  had  remained  on  the  square  before  the 
church,  or  gone  into  the  public  houses.  Gilbert 
Cloquet  was  talking  before  the  door  of  the  cafe* 
Blanquaire  in  the  midst  of  some  two  score  of  them. 
He  interrupted  himself  in  the  narrative  of  his 
travels,  and  all  listened  to  the  sound  of  the  horn 
which  was  going  away  and  steadily  growing  less,  like 
the  sparks  of  a  rocket.  Neither  the  enemies,  nor 
the  friends  of  the  chateau  made  the  least  obser- 
vation; the  same  serious  thought  restrained 
them,  a  common  feeling  of  the  instability  of  hu- 
man things  changed  their  silence  into  secret 
homage.  It  was  only  for  a  moment.  Then  a 
worn  voice,  that  of  Lampriere,  asked : 

"See  here,  Cloquet,  will  you  pay  a  round? 
When  one  comes  back  home,  one  treats." 

"That  is  true,"  cried  the  day-labourer.  "I  am 
willing!" 

"And  then,  you  know,  that  won't  keep  you 
from  telling  about  your  trip;  and  in  Blanquaire's 
we  will  be  more  comfortable  than  we  are  outside; 
there  is  a  nasty  fog." 

Cloquet   raised  his  head.     Enormous,   heavy 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    327 

clouds  were  drifting  past,  tossed  by  the  wind,  and 
spitting  down  a  frozen  mist  of  rain. 

"They  come  from  the  country  which  I  have 
just  left,"  he  said,  " where  the  people  are  better 
than  their  rain.  Come  on,  who  will  follow  me?" 

He  entered  Blanquaire's,  and  most  of  the  men, 
who  considered  themselves  invited  by  the  glance 
which  Cloquet  cast  around  the  circle,  entered 
also.  Several  came  out  of  the  neighbouring 
houses,  or  left  the  shelter  of  the  church  wall.  The 
long  room  of  the  cafe  was  filled  with  the  uproar 
of  voices  and  with  the  grating  of  the  heavy  nailed 
shoes  on  the  tiles,  and  soon  there  were  scarcely 
three  or  four  stools  vacant  around  the  wooden 
tables,  which  were  placed  in  double  rows  from  the 
door  to  the  rear  of  the  room.  All  the  comrades 
of  the  forest  were  there;  Ravoux,  who  had  gone 
into  the  cafe  while  the  Marquis  de  Meximieu  was 
still  speaking,  as  a  kind  of  protest;  Supiat  Gueule- 
de-Renard,  who  arrived  at  the  last  moment,  and 
entered  without  invitation,  with  his  restless  eyes 
and  sneering  mouth ;  Durge,  the  one  who  broke  the 
first  mowing  machine  of  Fonteneilles;  Gandhon, 
the  former  cuirassier;  Trepard,  the  huge  wagoner 
who  never  laughed  except  at  the  end  of  wedding 
feasts;  Mehaut,  Justamond,  Lampriere,  and  oth- 
ers who,  like  them,  were  grown  men;  there  were 
also  a  small  number  of  very  young  workmen, 
whose  youth  drew  them  together  and  who  called 
to  each  other  out  of  the  tumultuous  crowd  of  the 
older  men:  "Etienne  Justamond!  Jean- Jean! 
This  way!  I  have  a  place  for  you!"  During  sev- 
eral moments  the  hall  of  the  cafe*  Blanquaire  was 


328    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

like  the  hall  of  an  inn,  taken  by  assault  on  a  fair 
day,  by  sellers  and  merchants  shouting  there  as 
they  do  without,  in  a  hurry  to  drink,  spending 
through  pride,  masters  of  the  public  room  and  the 
surroundings,  of  the  wine  and  the  landlord  whom 
they  are  able  to  pay  and  who  must  laugh.  '  There 
were  the  same  cries,  the  same  teasing  words  to 
the  two  daughters  of  Blanquaire  who  brought  the 
bottles  and  defended  themselves  carelessly,  just 
as  if  used  to  it;  the  same  hits  about  the  skill  of  the 
coffee-house  keeper,  the  same  noise  of  corks  pop- 
ping and  of  glasses  clinking  against  each  other. 
But  very  quickly  it  was  evident  that  one  ruling 
thought,  a  common  curiosity,  excited  all  these 
men  grouped  in  fours  around  the  tables.  Hands 
pointed  out  Gilbert  Cloquet;  heads  were  turned 
toward  him.  He  had  seated  himself  toward  the 
centre  of  the  room,  near  the  right  wall,  and  there 
was  only  one  man  beside  him,  quite  a  young  one, 
Jean- Jean,  the  whistler  of  Montreuillon,  who  had 
taken  his  place  at  the  upper  end  of  the  table. 
Gilbert,  his  arms  crossed  by  the  side  of  his  full 
glass,  looked  at  his  old  comrades  whom  he  saw 
again  after  several  months  of  absence ;  he  felt  that 
he  was  observed,  and  he  also  observed  them, 
attentively,  silently,  like  an  old  pilot  who  has  a 
head  wind.  Sometimes  with  a  nod  of  the  head,  he 
answered  a  comrade's  good-evening.  A  voice  from 
the  back  of  the  room  said : 

"It  seems  that  his  opinions  have  changed. 
They  say  that  he  is  no  longer  one  of  us." 

He  kept  quiet,  but  he  raised  his  head  a  little 
to  see  who  was  speaking.  It  was  Ravoux,  seated 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    329 

in  the  back  of  the  room,  the  centre  of  a  compact 
group.  Another  voice,  vehement  and  loud,  re- 
plied from  the  other  end  of  the  cafe*,  near  the  door: 

"He  does  not  hide  it.  You  saw  him  speaking 
to  the  nobleman  just  now.  And  a  few  minutes 
ago,  he  said  that  the  Belgians  were  better  than 
the  lads  of  Nievre." 

A  murmur  rose ;  forms  which  were  leaning  over 
stiffened  up;  and  astonished,  suspicious,  or  irri- 
tated, questioned  Gilbert  Cloquet  with  their  eyes 
while  the  glasses  were  placed  upon  the  tables. 

He  did  not  budge  any  more  than  a  column. 
Some  of  his  neighbours,  who  were  not  very  near 
him,  shoved  back  their  stools.  Supiat's  banter- 
ing voice  went  on : 

"All  the  same,  we  must  know  what  to  count 
on.  The  season  is  beginning  in  the  forest.  We 
cannot  have  traitors  among  us." 

Protestations  interrupted  him: 

"He  is  not  one!  Cloquet,  say  that  you  are  not 
one?" 

"I  saw  the  way  he  spoke  on  the  square,  and  the 
way  he  saluted  the  church,"  continued  Supiat, 
"and  I  tell  you  that  Gilbert  Cloquet  here  has  be- 
come something  like  a  clerical.  I  would  not 
swear  that,  among  the  Picards,  they  have  not 
made  him  take  the  sacrament!" 

The  sixty  drinkers  looked  at  Gilbert  Cloquet. 
He  lifted  his  hat  tranquilly  and  said : 

"I  have  done  so." 

The  men  all  rose.  The  wrath  of  their  gestures 
and  their  voices  filled  the  room.  They  threat- 
ened him  with  their  arms;  they  called  to  each 


330    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

other  from  one  table  to  another,  from  the  window 
to  the  door,  from  the  rear  of  the  room  to  the  en- 
trance. Many  of  the  men  cried:  "Down  with 
Cloquet!  Down  with  the  skull-caps!"  Others 
shouted:  "He  is  free!  We  are  free!"  Over- 
turned stools  fell  upon  the  tiled  floor.  Supiat 
whistled  in  a  key.  A  formidable  blow  from  a 
fist,  which  made  the  glasses  and  bottles  jump, 
brought  a  half  silence,  and  the  deep-chested 
voice,  the  voice  which  Ravoux,  the  president, 
used  at  public  reunions,  proclaimed : 

"Let  him  explain!  We  will  judge  him,  com- 
rades. Listen  to  him!" 

They  saw  then  that  Cloquet  was  also  standing 
with  his  shoulders  braced  against  the  wall,  that 
his  look  was  calm  and  that  his  arms  were  crossed. 

"It  is  true,"  he  said,  "I  have  seen  over  there 
comrades  who  loved  each  other  better  than  we 
do,  and  who  lived  better  lives  than  ours.  I  might 
have  seen  the  same  thing  in  France;  but  as 
for  me,  I  have  seen  it  on  the  other  side  of  the 
frontier." 

"No!  No!  Don't  let  him  speak!  Out  of  the 
union,  Cloquet!  Put  it  to  vote  now,  Ravoux; 
there  is  a  quorum!" 

"Not  yet!"  cried  Ravoux.    "Let  him  speak!" 

"Not  yet,"  returned  Cloquet,  "I  am  blaming  no 
one !  My  heart  has  not  changed  for  the  worse,  on 
the  contrary;  but  I  have  seen  that  we  do  not  have 
real  life,  and  I  have  come  back  to  tell  you  where 
it  is.  I  will  tell  you  once,  twice,  ten  times,  just  as 
long  as  I  am  alive.  No  one  shall  stop  me !  I  want 
to  stay  with  you.  The  justice  that  I  used  to  long 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    331 

for,  I  long  for  still,  but  I  know  now  that  it  is  more 
beautiful  than  I  ever  imagined.  And  I  follow  it." 

"Follow  it  alone!  Enough!  Put  him  out! 
Bravo,  Cloquet!  No!  Put  him  out!" 

"Come,  then,  and  put  me  out!" 

"We  are  coming!" 

In  the  increasing  tumult,  which  Ravoux  failed 
to  quiet  by  blows  of  his  fist  on  the  table,  three 
men,  jumping  over  a  table,  ran  toward  Cloquet; 
Tournabien,  with  his  cat's  face,  Le  DeVore,  and 
Lamprie're,  completely  drunk.  A  human  wave 
dragged  along  by  them  surged  to  the  middle  of 
the  room,  spreading  out  in  a  half  circle.  But 
at  the  moment  when  Cloquet,  surrounded  at  a 
distance,  was  preparing  to  defend  himself,  and 
was  unfolding  his  arms,  the  assailants  and  the 
curious,  the  secret  friends  and  the  open  enemies 
stopped,  and  became  suddenly  silent.  A  new 
sight  confounded  them  all  with  the  same  amaze- 
ment. A  man  had  ranged  himself  along  the  wall 
at  Gilbert's  side.  Youth  illumined  him.  He 
smiled.  He  was  slender  and  smaller  than  the 
tall  Gilbert;  he  looked  up  to  him  from  his  feet  to 
his  head  with  affection  as  a  younger  brother  looks 
at  an  older  one,  and  he  said,  in  the  silence,  without 
paying  attention  to  the  clenched  fists: 

"Monsieur  Cloquet,  I  am  on  your  side!" 

Cloquet  smiled  with  satisfaction,  and  showed 
his  white  teeth. 

"Ah,  Jean- Jean,  little  wood-cutter  of  Mon- 
treuillon,  you  have  a  heart  such  as  few  have ;  but 
do  not  take  my  part  so  quickly,  betray  me  rather; 
they  might  do  you  harm." 


332    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

The  little  man  turned  toward  the  excited  mob. 

"They  are  not  all  against  you." 

And,  to  show  that  he  was  right,  two  others, 
who  were  about  his  age,  making  a  way  with 
their  elbows,  stepped  out  of  the  ranks.  They 
came  through  some  instinct,  because  a  word  of 
honour  or  of  friendship  had  touched  them;  they 
took  sides  for  the  weak  and  for  the  unknown 
God;  they  were  pale,  and  one  was  fair-haired, 
ruddy  and  freckled,  and  the  other,  his  chest 
still  narrow  but  limbed  like  a  cuirassier,  had  on 
his  chin  the  curly  shavings  of  a  brown  beard. 
Their  eyes  were  quivering  with  restrained  anger. 

"You,  too,  Etienne  Justamond?"  said  Cloquet. 
"You,  too,  Victor  M6haut?  Ah!  there  are  brave 
men  everywhere!" 

And  when  the  three  young  men  were  by  his  side 
framing  him,  one  on  his  right,  two  on  his  left,  he 
began  to  laugh  aloud  to  keep  himself  from  crying; 
he  reached  out  his  arms,  and  placed  them  upon 
the  friendly  shoulders,  and  he  cried,  and  his 
voice  drowned  the  murmur  of  the  room : 

"Turn  me  out  of  the  union  if  you  want  to, 
comrades,  this  is  my  union!  Is  it  not  fine? 
Nothing  but  young  oaks!" 

"No  joking,  Cloquet!  No  one  is  expelling  you; 
you  are  free!  Come  back,  comrades,  and  take 
up  your  glasses  again!" 

Ravoux  interfered,  Ravoux  had  felt  afraid; 
he  felt  that  these  young  men  acted  in  a  new  way 
and  had  a  certain  disquieting  look  in  their  faces, 
like  that  of  dogs  without  a  collar.  Being  an  ex- 
perienced man,  he  saw  that  a  party  of  the  wood- 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    333 

cutters  secretly  admired  Gilbert  Cloquet;  he  had 
guessed  the  ruling  opinion  and  he  spoke  with  au- 
thority as  usual;  his  pale,  hairy  hands  pushed 
aside  the  men  and  broke,  the  circle  made  around 
Cloquet  by  Jean-Jean,  Etienne  Justamond,  and 
Victor  Mehaut. 

"I  like  that  better,"  said  Cloquet.  "Come  on! 
my  boys,  take  up  your  glasses.  Unclinch  your 
fists.  I  will  call  upon  you,  if  I  have  need  of  you." 

He  remained  standing,  while  the  men  seated 
themselves  gradually  around  the  tables.  He 
called  Blanquaire,  paid  for  the  drinks  of  all  who 
were  there,  and  then,  raising  his  glass  filled  to  the 
brim  with  Narbonne  wine,  he  emptied  it  at  a 
single  draught. 

"Adieu,  comrades  and  friends!  I  must  go  and 
see  my  house  where  I  have  not  yet  been." 

He  made  a  sweeping  gesture  with  his  hands, 
as  if  to  scatter  his  adieu  over  the  crowd.  Several 
men  cried:  "Vive  Cloquet!  Thanks  Cloquet!" 
others  with  a  movement  of  their  head  or  their 
eyes  gave  him  to  understand:  "I  am  with  you, 
in  my  heart."  Others  appeared  to  hear  and  to 
see  nothing.  He  crossed  the  hall,  slowly,  halted 
for  an  instant  on  the  threshold,  to  show  clearly 
that  he  was  not  running  away,  and  went  out  into 
the  street. 

The  noise  of  the  dispute,  the  acclamations,  the 
outbursts  of  voices  had  roused  the  curiosity  of  the 
neighbours  of  the  cafe*  Blanquaire.  When  Gil- 
bert Cloquet  raised  his  head  to  see  whether  the 
weather  had  improved,  he  noticed  faces  behind 
all  the  low  window-panes  of  the  houses;  he  even 


334    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

saw,  at  the  high  window  of  the  rectory,  quite 
near  the  cafe*,  Abbe  Roubiaux  leaning  out,  dis- 
turbed, and  wondering  to  himself:  "Have  they 
killed  some  one?" 

"I  am  not  yet  dead,  Monsieur  le  Cure","  he 
said.  "And  even  if  you  should  wish  to  read  me 
a  little  sermon,  I  have  something  to  tell  to  you!" 

The  abbe,  bare-headed,  came  out  through  the 
latticed  door  and  began  to  walk  beside  Gilbert, 
in  the  direction  of  the  forest  and  of  Pas-du-Loup. 
But  the  day-labourer  did  not  tell  him  any  im- 
portant news.  It  was  rather  he  who  asked  ques- 
tions and  made  the  abbe  tell  him  about  the  last 
weeks  of  Michel  de  Meximieu's  life.  At  the  place 
where  the  path  separates  from  the  road,  far  from 
the  houses,  far  from  ears  which  lie  in  wait  for 
words : 

"Monsieur  le  Cure,"  said  Cloquet,  stopping, 
"you  must  not  go  any  farther.  It  is  a  great  deal 
to  have  made  you  come  so  far  without  telling  you 
the  news.  But  I  did  not  wish  to  be  spied  upon. 
Monsieur  le  Cure*,  whom  do  you  think  you  have 
before  you?" 

"Gilbert  Cloquet,  the  wood-cutter." 

"No,  it  is  another  man;  I  am  converted." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"Converted  thoroughly,  heart,  body  and  spirit. 
But  you  have  not  done  this  work.  The  Belgians 
did  it." 

Rapidly,  he  told  the  story  of  his  stay  in  the 
country  of  the  Picards  and  how  he  had  been  led, 
almost  without  wishing  it,  to  follow  the  butcher 
of  QuieVrain.  He  talked  without  taking  his  eyes 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    335 

off  Abbe  Roubiaux,  with  a  clear,  satisfied,  friendly 
glance,  which  meant:  "You  see,  indeed,  that  I 
do  not  lie.  I  am  not  the  same  man  who  turned 
away  when  you  passed,  or  who  did  not  under- 
stand." The  abbe  did  not  always  look  at  Gilbert; 
at  times,  he  raised  his  eyes  above  his  friend,  above 
the  earth,  as  Christ  does  in  the  paintings,  when  he 
is  going  to  bless  the  bread.  And  each  time  his 
eyes  came  back  from  above,  all  glistening  and 
suffused  with  new  tears.  At  last  he  said: 

"I  have  worked,  I  also,  during  the  time  of  your 
absence;  and  you  will  see  on  Sunday,  that  sev- 
eral have  listened  to  me.  But  I  am  still  much 
alone,  Gilbert;  you  will  help  me,  will  you  not?" 

"What  a  question!  No  one  believes  for  himself 
alone,  Monsieur  PAbbe!  When  I  have  had  any- 
thing good,  I  have  always  shared  it." 

"What  a  misfortune  for  us  was  Monsieur 
Michel's  death!" 

"Yes,  you  may  well  say  that.  You,  he,  and  I, 
we  were  like  a  Trinity.  But  just  we  two  to- 
gether, Monsieur  le  Cure*,  we  are  very  strong, 
because  people  respect  us." 

"And  have  you  thought  what  you  will  do?" 

"Yes,  I  will  act  as  I  did  on  the  night  before 
the  sale  at  Epine.  There  was  a  horse  here,  a  cow 
there,  another  somewhere  else,  some  sheep  in  the 
stubble  field,  and  I  brought  them  all  home!" 

He  made  a  gesture  as  he  used  to  do  in  the  pub- 
lic meetings,  and  his  voice  rose : 

"And  then,  you  know,  I  am  staying  in  the 
union.  Old  Gilbert  is  a  comrade  as  before." 

"You  do  well!" 


336    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

"Even  if  you  did  not  say  so,  I  would  think  so 
just  the  same.  Only,  Monsieur  le  Cure " 

He  bent  down  and  he  lowered  his  voice,  be- 
cause he  was  talking  in  confidence. 

"Only,  you  will  have  to  be  like  the  priests  of 
the  country  of  the  Picards.  They  are  friendly  to 
the  poor  people." 

"I  am  also." 

"The  one  who  preached  to  us,  when  we  looked 
at  him,  we  saw  in  his  heart  something  which  loved 
us,  and  when  he  spoke,  we  would  have  said  that 
he  was  one  of  us." 

"I  shall  know  how;  do  not  fear!" 

Then  the  abbe  asked : 

"Give  me  your  hand." 

Gilbert  reached  out  both  of  them.  And  the 
abbe  pressed  them  in  his,  a  long  time,  and  he  con- 
sidered, dumb  with  emotion,  that  ancient,  beau- 
tiful and  necessary  thing,  the  workman's  hands 
clasped  in  the  priest's. 

They  separated.  Cloquet  went  down  by  the 
foot-path  which  leads  to  Pas-du-Loup. 

It  was  two  o'clock  in  the  afternoon.  The  sky 
was  visible  toward  the  mountains  of  Morvan. 
But  the  houses  of  the  hamlet,  buried  in  the  forest, 
received  only  the  overflow  of  the  light  which 
passed  above  them.  At  this  moment,  they  were 
already  in  the  dusk  and  the  shadow,  and  one 
would  have  said  that  night  had  begun  for  them. 
Gilbert  bent  his  steps  toward  one  which  was  more 
hidden  than  the  others,  and  of  which  the  window 
was  closed.  He  gave  three  loud  knocks  with  his 
cane. 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    337 

Mere  Justamond  ran  to  the  threshold  of  the 
neighbouring  house. 

"Who  is  knocking?  What,  is  it  you,  Gilbert 
Cloquet!  You  are  waiting  for  the  key?  I  will 
bring  it  to  you." 

She  disappeared,  and  returned  almost  imme- 
diately, flanked  by  her  two  daughters,  Julie  the 
tall,  and  Jeanne  the  dumpy  one. 

"Well,  my  poor  man,  we  had  given  up  hoping 
for  you!  See  the  house,  how  dead  it  looks!  No 
one  has  come  to  inquire  for  you  for  a  long  time." 

"No  one?    You  are  sure?" 

The  good  woman  put  the  key  in  the  lock  and 
said,  struggling  with  her  knee  against  the  door 
which  resisted: 

"No,  nobody,  not  a  Christian.  Only  Mehaut 
the  old  tile-maker  asked  about  the  house.  He 
would  have  liked  to  rent  it." 

"He  can  do  so,  probably,"  replied  Gilbert. 

Mere  Justamond,  having  succeeded  in  pushing 
the  door  open,  stood  aside  to  let  Cloquet  pass. 
But  he  dared  not  enter  at  first.  The  musty  air' 
which  blew  from  within,  the  air  which  dies  in  our 
homes  when  we  are  no  longer  there  and  all  the 
memories  of  the  past  stopped  him  on  the  thresh- 
old. He  wiped  his  forehead  with  his  hand,  as  if 
an  insect  had  stung  him,  and  stooping  a  little,  his 
eyes  intent,  he  contemplated  this  poor  cube  of 
shadow  which  had  been  the  home  of  his  joy,  the 
home  of  his  sorrow,  and  which  lived  no  more. 

Mere  Justamond  only  partly  understood.  She 
shook  her  head,  protruding  her  lips,  like  a  person 
who  would  like  very  much  to  know  more  but 


338    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

who  dares  not  ask  a  question.  She  merely 
asked : 

"Then  you  did  not  get  on  in  Picardy?" 

Gilbert,  without  answering  and  without  stirring, 
asked  in  his  turn,  in  a  very  low  voice,  which 
trembled : 

"Tell  me,  Mere  Justamond,  where  is  Marie? 
Do  you  know?  " 

Julie  Justamond,  red  like  a  squirrel,  standing 
by  her  mother,  her  teeth  gleaming,  answered: 

"She  was  always  a  gad-about  from  her  youth, 
and  she  keeps  it  up." 

Her  mother  gave  her  a  box  on  the  ear : 

"Jade!  That's  for  you!  Forgive  her,  Gilbert, 
she  is  still  young.  No,  I  have  not  had  much 
news.  People  have  told  me  that  she  was  at  Paris, 
with  her  husband." 

"I  will  find  her  because  she  will  have  need  of 
me,  Mere  Justamond." 

He  turned  his  head  toward  the  woman,  who 
pitied  him  when  she  saw  him  so  disturbed,  and 
he  said,  bending  down: 

"I  am  going  to  begin  again  to  work  for  her." 

"For  her,  Gilbert!  It's  not  possible!  For  a 
daughter  who  has  gone  back  on  you!" 

"Yes,  one  can  come  back  from  far  away,  you 
see.  She  may  return,  even  she!" 

"Who  has  been  sold  out,  who  has " 

"I  know  all  that  she  has  done,  Mere  Justa- 
mond, but  I  know  what  I  am  saying.  I  am  going 
to  begin  again  to  work  for  her." 

He  went  into  the  house  and  they  saw  him  no 
more,  except  like  a  shadow  which  advances  un- 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    339 

certainly.  Then  the  women  went  away.  The 
hamlet  relapsed  into  silence.  There  could  only 
be  heard  the  rustling  of  the  dead  leaves  blown 
along  the  forest  path. 

Gilbert  Cloquet  remained  more  than  an  hour 
in  his  house.  When  he  came  out  and  passed  before 
the  house  of  Mere  Justamond,  he  carried  in  his 
hand  a  package  rolled  up  in  a  handkerchief.  They 
were  little  articles,  which  he  had  not  wished  to 
take  with  him  to  the  country  of  the  Picards, 
among  them  some  photographs  of  his  wife  and 
his  daughter,  a  small  statue,  two  fingers  high,  all 
smoked  and  formerly  completely  neglected,  and 
which  was  the  only  thing  he  had  kissed  on  his 
return.  He  walked  slowly. 

"My  poor  Cloquet,"  asked  the  good  woman, 
" where  are  you  going,  so  sad  like  that?" 

"I  am  going  to  do  something  which  costs  me 
much  to  do,"  replied  Cloquet,  without  stopping. 
"But  I  must  go " 

She  called: 

"You  will  come  back,  at  least?" 

He  made  a  gesture  as  if  to  say  no. 


XVI. 


THE  RETURN  TO  THE  FARM 

HE  saw  the  sunlight  again,  on  leaving  the  forest, 
but  the  days  had  begun  to  shorten,  for  it  was  the 
month  when  the  earth  sleeps  for  a  long  time.  The 
road  which  led  to  Fonteneilles  was  deserted. 
The  men  and  women  who  had  been  present  at  the 
funeral  had  scattered  across  the  country,  and 
their  minds,  too,  had  returned  to  their  own  affairs. 
Gilbert  went  up  alone.  Yet,  as  he  crossed  the 
hamlet,  he  was  seen  by  the  women  and  girls  who 
were  idly  dreaming  and  plying  their  needle  behind 
the  windows.  Ten  faces,  young  and  old,  ten 
pairs  of  eyes  followed  the  man  who  walked  in  the 
middle  of  the  road. 

"Were  is  he  going?" 

He  looked  at  no  one.  His  head  was  bent  and  his 
little  bundle  was  still  in  his  hand. 

"Where  is  he  going?  He  has  on  his  best 
clothes.  He  is  not  going  toward  the  woods;  no, 
he  is  going  toward  the  upper  part  of  the  hamlet; 
there  he  is  in  front  of  Durge's  house;  he  is  not 
stopping.  He  is  already  growing  smaller.  He  is 
far  away.  Can  it  be?  Yes,  that  is  it!  He  is 
going  up  to  La  Vigie!" 

He  was  going  up,  in  fact,  to  La  Vigie.  For 
twenty-three  years  he  had  not  once  followed  the 

340 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    341 

bit  of  road  which  goes  from  Fonteneilles  to  the 
summit  of  the  hill  on  which  the  farm  house  was 
built,  and  then  down  on  the  other  side.  When  he 
had  to  go  to  Crux-la- Ville,  he  chose  to  prolong 
the  trip  by  going  around  the  green  hill,  rather 
than  to  see  again  the  walls  which  he  had  left  and 
to  risk  meeting  the  master  of  the  land  on  the  land 
itself.  He  had  left  the  market  place  behind  him 
now,  and  he  was  on  the  last  ascent,  which  is 
straight  and  regular.  He  glanced  neither  to  the 
right  nor  to  the  left,  but  he  raised  his  head,  and 
there  above,  level  with  the  sky,  he  watched  grow- 
ing larger  and  moving  in  measure  with  his  steps, 
the  outline  of  the  roofs  and  of  the  broken  stones 
whose  name  was  La  Vigie!  The  years  which  he 
had  spent  there,  the  best  ones,  those  of  his  youth, 
rising  above  the  dust  and  the  stones  which  had 
fallen  upon  them,  came  back  to  life  in  the  mind  of 
Gilbert.  He  saw  all  the  past  living  again,  and  the 
countenance  of  Monsieur  Honore  Fortier,  on  the 
day  when  they  had  separated.  For  Gilbert  this 
stern,  smooth  shaven  face,  round  and  knotted, 
had  never  changed,  never  grown  old;  it  lived, 
transfixed  in  an  expression  of  anger,  disdain  and 
defiance.  Now  they  were  going  to  meet  again; 
Gilbert  had  changed,  but  had  the  other,  the  one 
who  never  left  La  Vigie,  except  to  go  to  fairs 
in  the  red  spring  cart? 

As  the  double  hedge  of  the  little  road  which 
joins  the  farm  to  the  highway,  and  the  rounded 
ash  tree  which  hides  still  the  edge  of  the  forest, 
and  the  stables  half  concealing  the  house,  "the 
manor"  which  is  built  on  the  left  side  of  the  court, 


342    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

grew  larger  as  he  approached  them,  Gilbert  Clo- 
quet  slackened  his  steps.  "Have  I  indeed  grown 
old?  "he  thought. 

The  sun  shone  again  for  a  little  while  before  it 
disappeared. 

When  the  wind  of  the  plateau  blew  upon  his 
damp  brow,  Gilbert  stopped  at  the  entrance  of 
the  little  road  of  the  farm.  He  was  within  fifty 
paces  of  La  Vigie ;  he  saw,  on  one,  the  widest  side, 
Monsieur  Fortier's  house,  then  the  court  leading 
down  from  it,  and  in  the  rear  the  pig-pens  and  the 
hen-house,  and  quite  near,  forming  the  third  side 
of  the  court  and  showing  its  longest  side,  the  ox- 
stalls,  the  cow-sheds,  the  barn  and  the  stable  with 
the  pigeons  on  the  roof.  The  farm  seemed  to  be 
deserted. 

"  Perhaps  he  is  away,"  murmured  Gilbert. 

He  entered  by  the  road,  and  advancing  to  the 
middle  of  the  court,  stood  there,  facing  the  door 
of  the  house,  which  was  closed.  On  his  left,  shel- 
tered by  the  wall  of  the  cow-sheds,  two  young 
servants  of  La  Vigie  were  unharnessing  a  mare  and 
unyoking  four  oxen,  and  they  began  to  point  at 
the  newcomer,  and  to  laugh  at  him.  He  paid  no 
more  attention  to  them  than  to  the  gnats  which 
were  dancing  around  him.  He  did  not  take  his 
glance  away  from  the  door  of  the  farm  house. 
He  waited,  leaning  with  one  hand  upon  his  staff 
of  thorn,  his  bundle  placed  near  him  upon  the 
ground.  More  than  five  minutes  passed,  and  then 
Gilbert  raised  his  hat.  He  had  just  seen  Madame 
Fortier,  all  white,  behind  the  window.  The  door 
opened,  and  Monsieur  Fortier  appeared  on  the 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    343 

threshold.  But  he  did  not  come  forward.  Gil- 
bert's old  master,  the  rich  farmer,  now  the  chief 
personage  of  the  community,  examined  in  his 
turn  this  day-labourer  whose  intentions  he  was 
trying  to  discover.  Across  the  court,  from  one 
man  to  the  other,  thoughts  and  silent  questions 
and  answers  went  and  came.  An  ill  will  as  violent 
as  on  the  first  day  swelled  the  heart  and  made  the 
shaven  lips  of  Monsieur  Fortier  tremble.  He  was 
on  the  point  of  crying  out: 

"Get  out  of  here,  Cloquet,  my  court  is  not  for 
servants  who  have  left  me!" 

But  he  noticed  that  the  day-labourer  had  his 
hat  in  his  hand,  and  he  said,  half  lifting  his  arm. 

"Come  nearer,  if  you  have  any  reason  for  com- 
ing before  me." 

"I  have,"  said  Gilbert. 

He  came,  still  keeping  his  eyes  raised,  so  that 
Monsieur  Fortier  might  be  able  to  read  the  mind 
of  his  old  servant.  He  halted  at  three  paces  from 
the  flight  of  steps,  and  he  replaced  his  hat. 

"Monsieur  Fortier,  I  did  you  a  wrong  when  I 
left  you  twenty-three  years  ago." 

"Do  you  think  I  have  forgotten  it?  I  am  as 
angry  with  you  as  on  the  first  day." 

"Monsieur  Fortier,  I  would  like  to  repair  the 
wrong  which  I  did  you.  I  would  like  to  come 
back  to  La  Vigie." 

"You  have  taken  your  time  about  it,  Gilbert 
Cloquet !  Is  it  because  you  have  no  more  strength 
that  you  come  back  to  me?" 

"Come,  now!"  said  Gilbert,  raising  his  cane 
slanting  like  an  axe. 


344    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

"Then,  it  is  because  you  have  no  more  money?" 

"Listen,"  said  the  man,  approaching  a  step, 
"you  cannot  reproach  me  for  having  lost  my  prop- 
erty to  pay  my  daughter's  debts.  Yes,  I  want  to 
earn  my  bread,  and  I  am  able  to  earn  it  anywhere, 
Monsieur  Fortier!  I  come  back  to  you  because  of 
the  justice  which  I  owe  you,  and  because  I  shall 
be  less  alone  here  where  I  was  young." 

"I  told  you  twenty-three  years  ago:  'Even 
when  you  are  old,  never  will  I  take  you  back.' 
I  have  but  one  word!" 

"I,  too,  Monsieur  Fortier,  I  said:  'I  want  to  be 
my  own  master.'  Now,  I  think  so  no  longer.  It 
is  not  your  trade  which  makes  you  free.  I  saw 
that  among  the  Picards." 

"Yes,  I  have  heard  things." 

Monsieur  Fortier  had  a  little,  dry  laugh  which 
Gilbert  knew.  When  Monsieur  Fortier  let  his 
chapped  lips  stretch,  were  it  only  a  fraction,  it 
was  a  sign  that  he  would  take  back  his  first 
decision. 

"I  beg  you,  Monsieur  Fortier!  I  love  La 
Vigie!" 

The  farmer  straightened  himself  up  at  the  tone 
of  emotion.  He,  too,  loved  La  Vigie  above  all !  At 
his  right,  he  saw  the  two  drovers,  two  sprigs  of 
boys  of  eighteen,  weak  heads  and  bad  hearts,  alas! 
and  like  all  the  other  servants  that  you  get  now- 
adays. And  near  him  was  Gilbert,  an  old  man, 
certainly,  but  who  loved  the  land,  who  did  not 
drink,  did  not  let  the  property  of  his  master  go 
to  waste,  who  had  touched  and  turned  over  every 
sod  of  the  great  farm. 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    345 

He  was  moved  in  thinking  of  his  interest  in 
taking  Gilbert  back. 

"Come,"  he  said. 

And  he  held  out  his  hand  toward  Gilbert  to 
make  him  come  up  to  him. 

Those  four  steps  taken,  the  day-labourer  be- 
came again  the  servant  of  Monsieur  Fortier  at  La 
Vigie  of  Fonteneilles. 

The  two  men  drank  first  two  glasses  of  the  red 
wine  of  the  South,  one  after  the  other,  and  ate  a 
biscuit,  as  a  sign  of  rejoicing.  Gilbert  had  re- 
gained his  courage,  and  asked  questions  about  the 
changes  and  the  plans. 

"You  will  find  your  lair  again;  it  is  not  so  soft 
as  a  bed!" 

"It  is  all  the  same  to  me.  The  oxen  have  the 
same  names?" 

"Always!  Griveau,  Chaveau,  Corbin,  Mon- 
tagne,  Jaunet  and  Rossigneau." 

"So  much  the  better,"  said  Gilbert,  laughing 
contentedly.  "I  shall  have  nothing  to  learn  over 
again,  then." 

"Not  much,  God  be  praised,"  replied  Monsieur 
Fortier. 

He  raised  the  curtain  of  the  window  toward  the 
fields: 

"Well,  then,"  he  said,  "while  there  is  still  light, 
go  make  a  round  of  the  fields,  my  old  Gilbert." 

Gilbert  crossed  the  court,  and  went  into  the 
meadow  which  lies  behind  the  ox-stalls,  and  from 
where  you  can  see  Fonteneilles  with  its  forest. 
But  he  remembered  especially  the  view  from  the 
pasture.  He  reached  by  the  road  the  great  pasture 


346    THE    COMING    HARVEST 

field  which  lies  upon  the  plateau  to  the  right, 
he  saw  again  the  mountains  of  the  Morvan  V 
all  the  horizon  which  he  had  looked  at  in  his  yout. 
Then  along  the  paths,  and  by  the  leafless  hedges, 
he  wandered  through  the  fields,  one  by  one. 

The  animals  looked  at  him  for  a  moment,  and 
began  to  graze  again,  thinking:  "It  is  all  right, 
he  belongs  here";  some  thrushes,  of  the  large 
kind,  perched  upon  the  poplar  trees,  which  had 
now  only  a  leaf  or  two,  called  out  before  going  to 
crouch  down  in  a  tuft  of  mistletoe;  some  ravens 
saluted  him  with  their  wings  passing  in  flight; 
some  wood-pigeons  launched  in  swift  course  from 
the  golden  heights,  plunged,  circling  round  and 
round,  toward  the  valleys  already  blue. 

It  was  cold.  The  setting  sun  foretold  wind  on 
the  next  day.  The  bell  of  Fonteneilles  sounded 
half-way  up  the  slope.  Gilbert  was  alone,  above 
the  vast  country,  in  the  falling  darkness.  He 
thought  of  the  house  where  he  would  return  no 
more,  hidden  away  down  there,  among  the  tall 
forest  trees  of  Pas-du-Loup.  He  thought  of  his 
comrades,  the  day-labourers  of  Fonteneilles,  and 
he  understood  that  he  loved  them  all,  that  he  for- 
gave everything,  and  that  it  would  be  good  for 
him  to  live  again  among  them. 

Then  as  the  light  began  to  fail,  he  embraced 
with  his  glance  the  whole  round  hill  where  he  was 
going  to  begin  his  work  again  on  the  morrow. 
The  grass  was  beautiful.  The  fallow  lands  were 
waiting  for  the  plough.  In  many  a  place,  above 
the  broken  lands,  the  grain  lifted  up  its  green 
point.  Gilbert  uncovered  his  head  and  he  said: 


THE    COMING    HARVEST    347 

It  matters  little,   now,   to  live  with  others. 

jat,  cold,  fatigue  or  death  matter  little  now. 
ivly  heart  is  at  peace." 

He  felt  a  great  living  joy  spring  up  of  itself  in 
his  regenerated  heart. 

And  again  he  said : 

"I  am  old,  and  yet  I  am  happy  now  for  the 
first  time." 

THE  END 


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